excited, typing fast. Somehow in the size menu I pick… my own measurements. The “custom plus 5XL” option. In my head I’m like “yeah this will hug her curves perfectly” (delusional king). Paid. Closed tab. Forgotten.

Yesterday the box arrives. She’s home early, spots the plain black package, eyes light up:

“Babe, is this for me? Let’s open it now!”

I’m standing there all smug, arms crossed, thinking I’m boyfriend of the year.

She rips the tape. Instant wave of new-polyester chemical smell hits the kitchen. She pulls out the thong first. Holds it up with both hands. It’s massive.

Then the bra. Cups the size of dinner plates. Maybe bigger.

Absolute silence. Clock ticking on the wall sounds like gunshots.

She slowly turns her head to me. Blinks. Blinks again. Looks back at the giant thong dangling from her fingers like a black lace flag of surrender. Then back to me.

Very quietly, very deadpan: “Are you… serious?”

My face ignites. Instant full-body sweat. Ears ringing like I got slapped by a church bell. Heart slamming so hard I’m convinced she can see it through my shirt.

I start stammering: “Site glitch! I swear! I’m such an idiot! I thought it was your size! I don’t know how this happened!”

She bursts out laughing so hard she has to grab the counter. Tears streaming. Still holding the thong up, she steps closer, drapes it across my waist for size comparison (it actually almost reaches around me side-to-side), and goes:

“Maybe this fits you better than me? Wanna try it on?”

I wanted to cease to exist. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe. She put the bra on her head like a weird hat, took meme selfies, the thong got used as a scarf for five minutes. But every single time our eyes meet now, I flash back to those enormous panties unfolding in slow motion like a horror movie reveal.