You thought my Converse would be the perfect hiding place. Warm. Dark. Safe. You crawled inside, pressed against the canvas, smug in your clever little escape… until I slid my foot back in. Now you’re trapped beneath my wrinkled soles, pinned by heat, weight, and the slow curl of my toes. Every step grinds you deeper into the creases you didn’t notice before—soft, worn, and inescapably close. I feel you squirm as my foot flexes, the sole folding and unfolding around your tiny body, claiming you. I pause just long enough to enjoy it. Then I move again—deliberate, lazy, cruelly aware. You’re not lost in my shoe. You’re caught. And my soles decide what happens next.