Titan Tina Rising

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Not a bad smell, exactly. More like the air after a lightning strike, that sharp metallic tang that makes your teeth ache. I was standing in the kitchen, holding a coffee mug that said WORLD'S OKAYEST HUSBAND, a gift from Tina three Christmases ago that I pretended to hate and actually loved. The mug was warm. The coffee was cold. I'd microwaved it twice already and forgotten about it both times.

Tina was in the living room, folding laundry. I could hear the snap of towels, the soft thump of them hitting the couch cushion. She had a system. Towels first, then shirts, then socks, then underwear. She'd tried to teach me the system once. I'd nodded along and then folded everything into vague rectangles and shoved them in drawers.

"John," she called. "Did you pay the electric bill?"

"I paid it Tuesday."

"The online portal says it's overdue."

"I paid it Tuesday."

"Then why does it say overdue?"

I set the mug down and walked into the living room. She was standing by the couch with a towel in her hands, mid-fold. Her hair was pulled back in that messy bun she wore on weekends, the one with the pencil stuck through it. She had on my old college sweatshirt, the gray one with the hole in the left elbow, and a pair of leggings that had a small tear at the knee. She looked like she always looked on Saturday mornings. Beautiful in a way that had stopped being surprising and started being necessary.

"Let me see," I said.

She handed me her phone. I scrolled through the payment history. There it was. Tuesday, 9:47 AM, $147.83 to City Electric. Confirmed.

"It's there," I said.

"Then why does it say overdue?"

"Because their website is garbage."

She took the phone back and stared at it like she could intimidate the screen into correcting itself. Tina had a look she got when technology failed her. Not angry. More like personally offended. Like the universe had broken a promise it made specifically to her.

"I'll call them Monday," I said.

"You said that last time."

"And I called them last time."

"And it took three weeks to fix."

"That's not my fault."

"I know it's not your fault. I'm just saying."

She went back to folding. I went back to the kitchen. The coffee was still cold. I poured it down the sink and watched the brown swirl disappear. Outside the window, Mrs. Patterson was walking her dog, a fat corgi that waddled more than walked. The sky was that flat white gray that meant it might rain or might not. Ohio in October. You never knew.

That was the last normal Saturday.

I've thought about it a lot since then. What I would've done differently. What I could've said. But you can't go back. You can only go forward, even when forward doesn't make any sense.

The thing happened on Sunday.

We were at the grocery store. Meijer, the big one on the north side, the one with the weird layout where you have to walk through the garden section to get to the produce. Tina had the list. She always had the list. She was the organized one. I was the one who pushed the cart and grabbed things off shelves and occasionally wandered off to look at the clearance aisle.

"Get two percent," she said, handing me the cart. "Not one percent. Not whole. Two."

"I know."

"Last time you got one percent."

"Last time you didn't specify."

"I always specify."

She walked toward the bakery section. I watched her go. She had a way of moving through crowds, weaving without slowing down, like water finding the path of least resistance. I used to tease her about it. I used to say she should've been a running back. She'd roll her eyes and say she'd rather be a linebacker. Something about the way she said it always made me laugh.

I got the milk. Two percent. I grabbed a box of Cheerios because we were almost out. I grabbed a bag of those sour gummy worms she liked but never admitted to liking. Then I went to find her.

She was in aisle seven. Paper goods. Standing in front of the paper towels with her head tilted, comparing two brands. I came up behind her and put my hand on her back. She didn't flinch. She never flinched when I touched her. That was one of the things I loved about her.

"Which one?" she said.

"The blue one."

"Why the blue one?"

"Because it's cheaper."

"The blue one is not cheaper."

I looked at the price tags. She was right. The blue one was fifty cents more.

"Okay, the yellow one."

"The yellow one has terrible reviews."

"Who reviews paper towels?"

"People who care about paper towels."

I laughed. She didn't. She was serious. That was another thing I loved about her. She was serious about everything. Even paper towels.

"Fine," I said. "Get the expensive one."

"We're not getting the expensive one. We're getting the one that's on sale."

She grabbed a pack of paper towels with a green label. I didn't recognize the brand. She put it in the cart and kept walking. I followed.

That's when it started.

At first I thought I was just tired. My eyes felt funny, like I'd been staring at a screen for too long. I blinked a few times. It didn't help. The aisle seemed to stretch. Not in a weird way, not in a funhouse mirror way. Just... longer. The shelves looked taller. The ceiling looked higher.

"Tina," I said.

She didn't answer. She was reading the back of a box of trash bags.

"Tina."

"What?"

"Do you feel weird?"

She looked at me. "Weird how?"

"I don't know. Just weird."

She frowned. "Are you getting sick?"

"I don't think so."

"Because we have that thing at my sister's next weekend and I don't want you to be sick."

"I'm not sick."

"Then what's wrong with you?"

"I don't know. I just feel... off."

She put the trash bags in the cart. "You probably need to eat something. You skipped breakfast."

"I had a granola bar."

"That's not breakfast."

"It's literally called breakfast bar."

"That's marketing. It's candy."

She started walking again. I followed. The feeling didn't go away. If anything, it got stronger. The floor tiles seemed farther away. The cart handle seemed higher. I had to reach up to push it.

Wait.

No.

That wasn't right.

I looked at my hands. They looked normal. Same hands I'd had for thirty-four years. Same wedding ring, a little tight because I'd put on weight since the wedding. Same scar on my thumb from a childhood bike accident. Everything looked the same.

But it didn't feel the same.

"Tina," I said again.

She sighed and turned around. "What?"

"Something's wrong."

She looked at me. Really looked. Her eyes moved from my face to my chest to my hands to my feet. Then back to my face.

"John," she said. "You look..."

"What?"

"I don't know. Different."

"Different how?"

She didn't answer. She just stared. And I stared back. And for a moment, everything was very quiet. The store music faded. The sound of other shoppers faded. It was just us, standing in aisle seven, looking at each other like we'd never seen each other before.

Then a woman with a cart full of frozen pizzas pushed past us and said "excuse me" in a tone that meant we were in her way. We moved. The moment broke. Tina shook her head and kept walking.

"Come on," she said. "We still need to get the chicken."

I followed her. But I couldn't shake the feeling. Something was wrong. Something was different. I just didn't know what.

We finished the shopping. We checked out. We loaded the bags into the trunk of our Honda Civic, a car we'd bought three years ago and still owed money on. Tina got in the driver's seat. I got in the passenger's seat. She adjusted the mirror. I adjusted my seat.

That's when I noticed.

My seat was too far back. I had to pull the lever and slide forward. But when I slid forward, my knees hit the glove compartment. I had to slide back. Then I was too far back again. I spent a full thirty seconds adjusting the seat, trying to find a position that worked.

"What are you doing?" Tina asked.

"Nothing."

"You're fidgeting."

"I'm adjusting."

"Adjusting what?"

"The seat."

"Why?"

"It feels weird."

She looked at me. That look again. The one that said she was seeing something she didn't understand.

"John," she said slowly. "Are you... taller?"

I laughed. "What?"

"Are you taller?"

"That's not possible."

"I know it's not possible. I'm asking if you are."

I looked at her. She was serious. She was always serious. But this was different. This was serious with a layer of something else underneath. Something like fear.

"I don't think so," I said.

"You're sitting higher."

"The seat's adjusted weird."

"The seat's not adjusted weird. You're sitting higher."

I looked down at my legs. They looked the same. I looked at my arms. Same. I looked at the dashboard. It seemed farther away than usual. But that didn't mean anything. That could be anything.

"Can we just go home?" I said.

She stared at me for another long moment. Then she started the car.

The drive home was quiet. Tina didn't turn on the radio. She didn't talk. She just drove, both hands on the wheel, eyes straight ahead. I watched the houses go by. The same houses I'd seen a thousand times. The same trees. The same mailboxes. Everything the same. Everything except me.

When we got home, I went straight to the bathroom. I closed the door and stood in front of the mirror. I looked at myself. Same face. Same hair, brown and starting to thin at the temples. Same eyes, brown, a little tired. Same nose. Same mouth. Same chin. Same everything.

But something was off. I couldn't put my finger on it. It was like looking at a photograph of yourself and knowing it was taken at a slightly different angle than you're used to. You look like you. But you don't look like you.

I stood there for a long time. Then Tina knocked on the door.

"John. Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"You've been in there for twenty minutes."

"Just thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know how.

She knocked again. "Open the door."

I opened the door. She was standing in the hallway, arms crossed, that look on her face. The serious look. The one that meant she wasn't going to let this go.

"What's going on?" she said.

"Nothing."

"Don't tell me nothing. Something's going on. You've been acting weird since the store."

"I haven't been acting weird."

"You've been acting weird."

"I've been acting normal."

"You've been acting weird."

We stared at each other. This was our thing. This was how we argued. Short sentences. Repetition. Neither of us willing to back down. Usually it ended with one of us laughing. Usually it ended with a kiss. Usually it ended with everything being fine.

But this time, nobody laughed.

"John," she said. "Something happened at the store. I saw it. You looked different. You were different."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were taller."

"I wasn't taller."

"You were taller. I saw it."

"You're imagining things."

"I'm not imagining things."

She stepped closer. She had to look up to meet my eyes. That was normal. She was five-four, I was five-ten. She always had to look up. But now she had to look up more. A lot more.

"John," she whispered. "What's happening?"

I looked down at her. Down. That was the word. I was looking down at her. More than usual. More than I should have been.

"I don't know," I said.

And that was the truth. I didn't know. I didn't know anything. I just knew that something was wrong. Something was different. And I had no idea what to do about it.

We spent the rest of the day pretending everything was normal. We put away the groceries. We made dinner. We watched a movie. Tina sat on one end of the couch, I sat on the other. Usually we sat in the middle, tangled up together, her feet on my lap, my arm around her shoulders. But tonight we sat apart. Neither of us said why. We just did.

The movie was a comedy. I don't remember the name. I don't remember what it was about. I just remember sitting there, staring at the screen, not seeing anything. My mind was somewhere else. Somewhere I couldn't reach.

When the movie ended, Tina stood up and stretched. She yawned. She said she was going to bed. I said I'd be up in a minute. She nodded and walked toward the bedroom. I watched her go. She looked smaller than usual. That was the first time I noticed it. She looked smaller.

I sat on the couch for a long time after she left. I thought about the store. I thought about the mirror. I thought about the way she'd looked at me. Like I was a stranger. Like I was something she didn't recognize.

I stood up. I walked to the bedroom. I opened the door.

Tina was already in bed, under the covers, her back to me. I undressed in the dark. I slid into bed. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe.

"John," she said.

"Yeah."

"Are you scared?"

I thought about it. Was I scared? I didn't know. I didn't know what I was feeling. Everything was confused. Everything was wrong.

"Yeah," I said. "I think I am."

She didn't say anything. She just reached back and found my hand. She held it. Her hand felt small in mine. Smaller than usual. Smaller than it should have been.

We lay there like that, holding hands, not talking, not sleeping. The clock on the nightstand ticked. The wind blew outside. The house creaked. Normal sounds. Normal night. Normal everything.

Except nothing was normal.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of Tina screaming.

Not a scared scream. Not a hurt scream. A surprised scream. The kind of scream you make when you open a cabinet and a pot falls out. Startled. Confused.

I sat up. Or tried to. My head hit something. The ceiling? No. The headboard. I was too tall for the bed. I'd grown overnight.

"John!" Tina yelled. "John, wake up!"

"I'm awake," I said. "What's wrong?"

"Look at you!"

I looked at myself. I was still in bed, still under the covers, but the covers didn't cover me anymore. My feet were hanging off the end of the bed. My shoulders were wider than the mattress. My arms were longer than they should have been.

"What the hell," I said.

"You grew!" Tina said. "You actually grew!"

"That's not possible."

"I know it's not possible! But look at you!"

I looked at her. She was standing by the bed, staring at me with wide eyes. She looked... normal. Same Tina. Same messy bun. Same old sweatshirt. Same everything.

But I was different. I was bigger. Taller. Wider. I'd gone to bed five-ten and woken up... what? Six-two? Six-three? I didn't know. I just knew I didn't fit in the bed anymore.

"Get up," Tina said. "Stand up. Let me see."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed. My feet hit the floor. I stood up. My head almost hit the ceiling fan. I had to duck.

"Holy shit," Tina whispered.

I looked down at her. Way down. She was five-four. She'd always been five-four. But now she looked like a child. A small child. She barely came up to my chest.

"John," she said. "You're huge."

"I'm not huge."

"You're huge. You're like... six-five. Six-six."

"I'm not six-six."

"Stand next to the wall. Let me measure."

She ran out of the room and came back with a tape measure. She made me stand against the wall. She climbed on a chair to reach the top of my head. She measured.

"Six-six," she said. "You're six-six."

"That's impossible."

"I know it's impossible. But you're six-six."

I looked at my hands. They looked like my hands, just bigger. I looked at my arms. Same. I looked at my feet. Same. Everything was the same, just bigger. Like someone had taken a photo of me and enlarged it.

"This doesn't make sense," I said.

"I know."

"People don't just grow overnight."

"I know."

"I'm thirty-four. I stopped growing fifteen years ago."

"I know."

"Then how is this happening?"

She didn't answer. She just stood there, holding the tape measure, looking at me like I was a puzzle she couldn't solve.

We spent the next hour trying to figure out what was going on. We weighed me. I'd gone from 180 to 240. We measured my hands. They'd gone from eight inches to ten. We measured my feet. They'd gone from size eleven to size fifteen. Everything was bigger. Everything was different.

Tina called in sick to work. I called in sick to work. We sat in the living room, staring at each other, trying to come up with a theory. Maybe it was something I ate. Maybe it was something in the water. Maybe it was a weird allergic reaction. Maybe it was a tumor. Maybe it was a dream.

It wasn't a dream.

By noon, I'd grown another inch. By three, another inch. By dinner, I was six-nine. Tina had to stand on a chair just to look me in the eye.

"John," she said. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know."

"We can't keep you here. You're going to outgrow the house."

"I know."

"We need to call someone. A doctor. Someone."

"And say what? My husband grew a foot overnight?"

"I don't know. Something."

I looked at her. She looked so small. So scared. So lost. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to make everything better. But I couldn't. I couldn't even fit my arms around her anymore.

"Tina," I said. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For this. For whatever's happening. I'm sorry."

She didn't say anything. She just looked at me. Then she walked over and pressed her face against my chest. Her whole body was shaking. I put my arms around her, careful, so careful. She felt like a doll. A tiny, fragile doll.

We stood like that for a long time. The sun went down. The room got dark. Neither of us moved.

The next day, I was seven feet tall.

The day after that, seven-two.

The day after that, seven-four.

I stopped fitting through doorways. I stopped fitting in the shower. I stopped fitting in the car. Tina had to move the furniture around just so I could walk through the living room. She had to move the bed to the floor because I couldn't get on it anymore. She had to buy a new toilet because I couldn't use the old one.

I stopped going outside. I couldn't. I couldn't fit through the front door. I couldn't fit in the car. I couldn't walk down the street without people staring, without people pointing, without people screaming.

So I stayed inside. I sat on the floor because the couch was too small. I watched TV on a screen that looked like a postage stamp. I ate food that Tina brought me on plates that looked like toys.

She took care of me. She did everything. She cooked. She cleaned. She went to work and came home and took care of me. She never complained. She never said it was too hard. She just did it.

But I could see it in her eyes. The exhaustion. The fear. The sadness. She was losing herself. She was disappearing. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

One night, about a week after it started, she came home from work and sat down on the floor next to me. She was so small. So tiny. She looked like a child next to me. A little girl.

"John," she said. "We need to talk."

"About what?"

"About this. About us."

"What about us?"

She looked up at me. Way up. Her neck had to hurt. But she didn't look away.

"I can't do this anymore," she said.

"Do what?"

"This. Taking care of you. Watching you grow. Watching you become something I don't recognize."

"I'm still me."

"You're not. You're not the same. You're different. You're... you're huge. You're a giant. And I'm... I'm nothing. I'm a speck. I'm a bug."

"You're not a bug."

"I am. Compared to you, I am."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her she was wrong. But I couldn't. Because she was right. I was huge. I was a giant. And she was small. She was tiny. She was a speck.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I know you're sorry. But sorry doesn't fix this. Sorry doesn't make you small again. Sorry doesn't make us normal again."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. I don't know what I want. I just know I can't keep doing this."

She stood up. She walked to the bedroom. She closed the door. I sat on the floor, alone, in the dark, and I cried.

The next day, she didn't come home.

I waited. I sat by the window, watching the street, waiting for her car. But she didn't come. The sun went down. The streetlights came on. She didn't come.

I called her phone. It went to voicemail. I called her sister. She didn't answer. I called her work. They said she'd taken a personal day.

I sat there all night, waiting. She didn't come.

The next morning, I found a note on the kitchen counter. I had to bend down to read it. My head almost hit the ceiling. The note was short. Just a few words.

I'm sorry. I can't do this. I love you.

I read it ten times. Twenty times. A hundred times. I read it until the words didn't make sense anymore. I read it until I couldn't see the paper through my tears.

She was gone. She'd left me. She'd left me because I was too big. Because I was a giant. Because I was something she couldn't handle.

I sat on the floor and I cried. I cried for hours. I cried until I couldn't cry anymore. Then I just sat there. Empty. Alone. A giant in an empty house.

The days passed. I don't know how many. I stopped counting. I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. I just sat there, on the floor, staring at the wall, waiting for something. I didn't know what. I just waited.

Then, one day, I heard a noise. A knock at the door. I didn't move. I couldn't move. I didn't want to move.

The knock came again. Louder. More insistent.

"John," a voice said. "John, open the door."

It was Tina. She'd come back.

I crawled to the door. I had to crawl. I couldn't stand up anymore. The ceiling was too low. I unlocked the door. I opened it.

She was standing there, looking up at me. Way up. Her neck craned. Her eyes wide. She was holding a suitcase. She was crying.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't have..."

"Tina," I said.

"I was scared. I was so scared. But I shouldn't have left. I should have stayed. I should have..."

"Tina."

"What?"

I looked at her. My wife. My beautiful, tiny wife. She was so small. So fragile. So perfect.

"I'm glad you came back," I said.

She dropped the suitcase and ran to me. She threw her arms around my leg because that was all she could reach. She pressed her face against my shin and sobbed. I reached down and put my hand on her head. My hand was bigger than her head. My hand was bigger than her whole body.

"I love you," she said. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," I said.

We stayed like that for a long time. Her crying against my leg. Me crying above her. Both of us broken. Both of us lost. Both of us together.

But even as I held her, even as I felt her warmth against my skin, I knew something. I knew this wasn't the end. This was just the beginning. Something was happening to me. Something was changing. And I had no idea what it was or where it would lead.

All I knew was that I was getting bigger. And she was staying the same.

And that was a problem neither of us knew how to solve.

The days turned into weeks. Tina stayed. She took care of me. She brought me food. She talked to me. She held my hand, or at least she held my finger. That was all she could reach now. My finger.

I kept growing. Eight feet. Nine feet. Ten feet. The house couldn't hold me anymore. I had to move to the garage. Tina cleared it out, moved all the boxes and the lawnmower and the Christmas decorations, and I sat there, on the concrete floor, surrounded by empty walls.

She slept in the house. I slept in the garage. She came out every morning to check on me. She brought me breakfast. She sat on a stool and talked to me while I ate. She told me about her day. She told me about the news. She told me about anything and everything. Just to fill the silence.

I listened. I always listened. It was all I could do. I couldn't go anywhere. I couldn't do anything. I just sat there, growing, waiting, listening.

Sometimes I thought about the past. About how things used to be. About the Saturday mornings and the grocery store and the paper towels. About the way she used to look at me. Not up. Just... at me. At my level. At my face.

I missed that. I missed looking at her without looking down. I missed being the same size. I missed being normal.

But normal was gone. Normal was a memory. Normal was something that happened to other people.

One day, Tina came out to the garage with a strange look on her face. Not scared. Not sad. Something else. Something I couldn't read.

"John," she said. "I need to tell you something."

"What?"

"I've been thinking. About us. About this."

"Okay."

"And I've been doing some research. About what's happening to you."

"You have?"

"Yeah. I've been looking online. Reading articles. Talking to people."

"Talking to who?"

"People who know about this kind of thing."

"What kind of thing?"

She paused. She looked at me. Way up. Her neck craned. Her eyes wide.

"John," she said. "I think I know what's happening to you."

"You do?"

"I think so."

"What is it?"

She took a deep breath. She looked at me. She didn't look away.

"I think you're becoming a giant," she said. "A real giant. Like in the stories. Like in the myths."

"That's not possible."

"I know it's not possible. But it's happening."

"But how? Why?"

"I don't know. I don't know how. I don't know why. But I know it's happening. And I know it's not going to stop."

"What do you mean it's not going to stop?"

"I mean you're going to keep growing. You're going to keep getting bigger. Until..."

"Until what?"

She didn't answer. She just looked at me. And I looked at her. And for a moment, everything was very quiet. The garage was still. The air was still. Everything was still.

"Until what, Tina?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know."

She walked over to me. She climbed onto my knee. She sat there, on my knee, looking up at me. Her whole body was smaller than my thigh. Her whole body was smaller than my arm.

"I'm scared," she said.

"I know."

"I'm scared of losing you."

"You're not going to lose me."

"I am. I'm losing you right now. Every day, you get bigger. Every day, you get further away. Every day, you become something I don't recognize."

"I'm still me."

"You're not. You're not the same. You're... you're becoming something else. Something I don't understand."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her she was wrong. But I couldn't. Because she was right. I was becoming something else. Something I didn't understand either.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I know."

"I don't know how to stop it."

"I know."

"I don't know what to do."

"I know."

She reached up and touched my face. Her hand was so small. So tiny. It felt like a butterfly landing on my cheek.

"We'll figure it out," she said. "Together."

"Together."

She smiled. It was a sad smile. A scared smile. But it was a smile. And that was something. That was everything.

We stayed like that for a while. Her on my knee. Me on the floor. Both of us together. Both of us scared. Both of us lost.

But together.

And that was the thing. That was the only thing. We were together. No matter what happened. No matter how big I got. No matter how small she stayed. We were together.

For now.

I didn't know what the future held. I didn't know how big I would get. I didn't know if I would ever stop growing. I didn't know if I would ever be normal again.

But I knew one thing. I knew I loved her. I knew she loved me. And I knew we would face whatever came next.

Together.

The next morning, I woke up and I was bigger. Of course I was bigger. I was always bigger. But this time, something was different. This time, I wasn't just bigger. This time, I could feel it. I could feel myself growing. I could feel my bones stretching. I could feel my muscles expanding. I could feel my skin pulling tight.

It hurt. It hurt more than anything I'd ever felt. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to die.

But I didn't. I just lay there, on the garage floor, and I let it happen. I let myself grow. I let myself become whatever I was becoming.

Because there was nothing else I could do.

Tina found me an hour later. I was two feet bigger. I was twelve feet tall. I was a giant. A real giant. A monster.

She stood in the doorway of the garage, looking at me. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide. She was scared. She was terrified.

But she didn't run. She didn't leave. She just stood there, looking at me.

"John," she said.

"Tina."

"Are you okay?"

"No."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing."

"There has to be something."

"There isn't."

She walked over to me. She climbed onto my chest. She lay there, on my chest, looking up at me. Her whole body was smaller than my hand. Her whole body was smaller than my heart.

"I'm here," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

She closed her eyes. She pressed her face against my chest. She listened to my heartbeat. It was slow. It was steady. It was the same heartbeat she'd listened to a thousand times before.

But everything else was different.

Everything else was wrong.

And we both knew it.

But we didn't say it. We didn't say anything. We just lay there, together, in the dark, waiting for whatever came next.

Waiting for the next growth spurt. Waiting for the next change. Waiting for the next thing that would tear us apart.

But for now, we were together.

For now, that was enough.

For now.