Becoming Little

Chapter Six: Regression Rules

They called it Little Hour.

It was optional, like most things at Eden Hollow. A quiet window in the afternoon where students could step into a more childlike mindset—coloring, story time, soft play, stuffies, or just sitting in a caregiver’s lap and being small for a while. For most of the Littles, it was a highlight of the day.

For Ari, it sounded like a trap.

A trap that she couldn’t stop thinking about.

She sat just outside the door of the playroom that day, pretending to scroll her broken phone. Inside, she could hear soft music, the rustle of crayons, occasional giggles.

And then, like a magnet:

“Hi, Ari.”

It was Jasper.

Of course.

She didn’t look up. “Let me guess. You’re here to drag me in?”

“Nope.” He leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets. “Just checking if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded like he believed her, even though they both knew it was a lie.

“You ever color when you were a kid?” he asked.

She gave him a side glance. “No. Wasn’t allowed. Crayons were considered a choking hazard in most of my group homes.”

Jasper’s expression didn’t change, but something softened in his posture.

“Well,” he said, “if you ever decide to try it now, the blue glitter markers in there are pretty awesome.”

He didn’t push. Just offered a small smile and disappeared inside.

Ari stared at the door for a long time.

And then—against all logic, against all instinct—she stood up and followed him in.

The room smelled like cookies and lavender.

There were beanbags shaped like clouds. Plush rugs. Soft music. One caregiver was reading a story in a gentle voice while three Littles snuggled on her lap, hugging stuffed animals like lifelines.

Ari hovered by the door, unsure.

Jasper was sitting at a low table nearby, helping a shy Little girl draw a flower garden.

He looked up and met her eyes—but didn’t say a word. Just nodded toward the open seat across from him.

Ari’s legs moved before she could argue.

She sat.

And just like that, no one clapped. No one cheered. No one even acknowledged it. It was quiet, safe, and totally uneventful.

Jasper slid a clean sheet of paper toward her. “Markers are in the basket. Help yourself.”

She picked out the blue glitter one.

Of course.

At first, she just scribbled random lines. Nothing special. But the motion of her hand—loose, unjudged—felt strangely soothing.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

She didn’t regress fully. No pacifier, no baby talk, no plushies in her lap.

But she let her body relax. Let her brain go a little fuzzy. Let the silence hold her while the page filled with stars and swirls and slow, blooming shapes.

Until—

Without warning, her throat closed.

Ari dropped the marker, hand shaking.

Jasper noticed instantly. “Ari?”

She turned away, hot tears already falling. “I don’t know what’s happening,” she whispered. “I’m not… I’m not doing anything. I’m just coloring.”

Jasper’s voice stayed calm. “Sometimes the safest things bring up the deepest things.”

She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, hating the way her nose was running, hating the way she couldn’t breathe properly, hating that she’d let herself feel anything.

“I feel stupid,” she said.

“You’re not.”

“I’m eighteen. I shouldn’t be crying over sparkly stars.”

“You’re Ari,” Jasper said. “And you’re allowed to cry over anything you need to.”

She covered her face. Her chest was tight, full of things she’d swallowed for years—tears that never had a place to land, memories she’d packed away with duct tape and stubborn pride.

And now, over crayons and glitter, the dam was breaking.

Jasper didn’t touch her.

But he shifted his chair a little closer, gently offering his presence, his steadiness, like a life raft.

“I’m not little,” she whispered after a while.

“You don’t have to be.”

“But I don’t think I’m big either.”

“That’s okay.”

He passed her a tissue.

She took it with shaking hands.

A minute later, she reached out—just slightly—and tugged the plush fox from her backpack, setting it beside her on the table.

Jasper smiled.

Not proud. Not smug.

Just warm.

Like someone who had been there before.

Like someone who would stay.