betrayed by 5‘8
htn Manlet out of form gymcell
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I’ve heard it all my life: “You’ve got such a handsome face.” I’ve got the smile, the jawline, the kind of eyes that people call “kind.” But none of that matters when you’re 5’5”. My height has always felt like a punchline to a joke that everyone’s in on but me. I didn’t choose this; I can’t change it, but it’s like I’m always paying the price for it.
Growing up, I was the funny, likable guy. I could make people laugh, and I had friends, but as I got older, something shifted. My friends started towering over me, and I stayed the same. Suddenly, what used to be harmless teasing about my height turned into a constant reminder of everything I wasn’t. I was the last pick, the guy who would never be taken seriously.
The first time it really hurt, I was 18. I’d spent months building up the courage to ask out Sara, a girl I’d liked since the start of the school year. She was smart, beautiful, and she laughed at my jokes like no one else did. But when I finally worked up the nerve to ask her out, she gave me this look—half pity, half embarrassment—and said, “You’re such a great guy, Michael, but... I don’t know. I just can’t date someone shorter than me.” That was the first time I felt it, the sting that never really goes away. I just nodded, smiled like it didn’t matter, and walked away feeling like a complete idiot.
But that wasn’t even the worst of it. Every rejection after that felt like a slow burn. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way they looked at me, like I wasn’t a real option. On dating apps, I’d get matches who’d compliment my smile or tell me how attractive I was. But as soon as they met me in person, their eyes would drop to my feet, and I’d see it—the disappointment, the realization that I wasn’t tall enough to be their fantasy. They’d try to hide it, but you can’t hide that kind of judgment. I’d sit through awkward dates with women who’d check their phones and make excuses to leave early. I remember one saying, “I thought you’d be taller,” like I’d tricked her on purpose. It was like a bad joke, but I was the punchline.
The worst part was how it affected every interaction. Every time I approached a woman, I could see her eyes flicker, sizing me up and then down, like she was doing the math and I just didn’t add up. At parties, I’d watch my friends—guys who were taller, more confident—effortlessly charm their way into conversations. Women would laugh at their jokes, touch their arms, and then barely notice me standing right there. If I did try to join in, it was like I was invisible. I’d be cut off mid-sentence, ignored, or, worse, patronized with a half-hearted smile before they turned back to the real attraction—the taller guy.
I tried to compensate in every way I could. I hit the gym, dressed well, worked on my sense of humor. I thought maybe if I was just good enough, it wouldn’t matter. But it never did. No matter what I did, I was always just the short guy trying too hard.
Then there was Laura. She was different, or so I thought. We met at a mutual friend’s dinner, and for the first time in forever, I felt seen. We clicked instantly. She laughed at my jokes, and we talked for hours that night. I was careful not to screw it up. I thought maybe this was my shot, maybe she was the one who wouldn’t care about the height thing. For a while, it felt like I was right. We went on a few dates, and things seemed perfect. But then it all fell apart.
One night, we were out, and we ran into her friends. The moment they saw me, I felt the shift in the air. They were polite, but I could see the glances, the whispers when I wasn’t looking. They stood there, these tall, perfect people, and I felt like a goddamn child. One of her friends even made a joke about how “cute” we looked together, which was just another way of saying I looked like her kid brother. I tried to laugh it off, but Laura’s face told me everything I needed to know. She was embarrassed.
A few days later, she called me, voice shaking like she was the one who was hurt. “I’ve been thinking, and... I don’t know if I can get over the height thing,” she said. “My friends… they just don’t see us as a match.” I wanted to scream at her, to ask why my height mattered more than everything else, but I just sat there, numb. I knew arguing wouldn’t change anything. I was too short for her, too short for her friends, too short for love.
After that, I started noticing it everywhere. I’d see women with their boyfriends—tall, confident, the kind of guys who didn’t have to try. I’d catch glimpses of myself in reflections and see someone trying too hard to be noticed, to be liked. Every time someone laughed off my height as “just a preference,” it felt like a knife twisting deeper. I wasn’t just being rejected; I was being dismissed.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been told, “You’re great, but I see you as a friend,” or, “If only you were taller.” It’s like my worth is measured in inches, and I come up short every time. No matter what I do, I’m always the guy who doesn’t quite measure up, who isn’t quite enough.
I can’t change who I am. I can’t make myself taller or force people to see past it. But that doesn’t stop the loneliness. It doesn’t stop the feeling that, no matter how much I bring to the table, I’ll always be judged for something I have no control over. I keep hoping that one day, someone will look at me and see me—not my height, but the person behind it. But right now, all I see is a world that’s built for people who are just a little bit taller, and I’m stuck looking up from below, wondering why that has to matter so damn much.
4o
Growing up, I was the funny, likable guy. I could make people laugh, and I had friends, but as I got older, something shifted. My friends started towering over me, and I stayed the same. Suddenly, what used to be harmless teasing about my height turned into a constant reminder of everything I wasn’t. I was the last pick, the guy who would never be taken seriously.
The first time it really hurt, I was 18. I’d spent months building up the courage to ask out Sara, a girl I’d liked since the start of the school year. She was smart, beautiful, and she laughed at my jokes like no one else did. But when I finally worked up the nerve to ask her out, she gave me this look—half pity, half embarrassment—and said, “You’re such a great guy, Michael, but... I don’t know. I just can’t date someone shorter than me.” That was the first time I felt it, the sting that never really goes away. I just nodded, smiled like it didn’t matter, and walked away feeling like a complete idiot.
But that wasn’t even the worst of it. Every rejection after that felt like a slow burn. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way they looked at me, like I wasn’t a real option. On dating apps, I’d get matches who’d compliment my smile or tell me how attractive I was. But as soon as they met me in person, their eyes would drop to my feet, and I’d see it—the disappointment, the realization that I wasn’t tall enough to be their fantasy. They’d try to hide it, but you can’t hide that kind of judgment. I’d sit through awkward dates with women who’d check their phones and make excuses to leave early. I remember one saying, “I thought you’d be taller,” like I’d tricked her on purpose. It was like a bad joke, but I was the punchline.
The worst part was how it affected every interaction. Every time I approached a woman, I could see her eyes flicker, sizing me up and then down, like she was doing the math and I just didn’t add up. At parties, I’d watch my friends—guys who were taller, more confident—effortlessly charm their way into conversations. Women would laugh at their jokes, touch their arms, and then barely notice me standing right there. If I did try to join in, it was like I was invisible. I’d be cut off mid-sentence, ignored, or, worse, patronized with a half-hearted smile before they turned back to the real attraction—the taller guy.
I tried to compensate in every way I could. I hit the gym, dressed well, worked on my sense of humor. I thought maybe if I was just good enough, it wouldn’t matter. But it never did. No matter what I did, I was always just the short guy trying too hard.
Then there was Laura. She was different, or so I thought. We met at a mutual friend’s dinner, and for the first time in forever, I felt seen. We clicked instantly. She laughed at my jokes, and we talked for hours that night. I was careful not to screw it up. I thought maybe this was my shot, maybe she was the one who wouldn’t care about the height thing. For a while, it felt like I was right. We went on a few dates, and things seemed perfect. But then it all fell apart.
One night, we were out, and we ran into her friends. The moment they saw me, I felt the shift in the air. They were polite, but I could see the glances, the whispers when I wasn’t looking. They stood there, these tall, perfect people, and I felt like a goddamn child. One of her friends even made a joke about how “cute” we looked together, which was just another way of saying I looked like her kid brother. I tried to laugh it off, but Laura’s face told me everything I needed to know. She was embarrassed.
A few days later, she called me, voice shaking like she was the one who was hurt. “I’ve been thinking, and... I don’t know if I can get over the height thing,” she said. “My friends… they just don’t see us as a match.” I wanted to scream at her, to ask why my height mattered more than everything else, but I just sat there, numb. I knew arguing wouldn’t change anything. I was too short for her, too short for her friends, too short for love.
After that, I started noticing it everywhere. I’d see women with their boyfriends—tall, confident, the kind of guys who didn’t have to try. I’d catch glimpses of myself in reflections and see someone trying too hard to be noticed, to be liked. Every time someone laughed off my height as “just a preference,” it felt like a knife twisting deeper. I wasn’t just being rejected; I was being dismissed.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been told, “You’re great, but I see you as a friend,” or, “If only you were taller.” It’s like my worth is measured in inches, and I come up short every time. No matter what I do, I’m always the guy who doesn’t quite measure up, who isn’t quite enough.
I can’t change who I am. I can’t make myself taller or force people to see past it. But that doesn’t stop the loneliness. It doesn’t stop the feeling that, no matter how much I bring to the table, I’ll always be judged for something I have no control over. I keep hoping that one day, someone will look at me and see me—not my height, but the person behind it. But right now, all I see is a world that’s built for people who are just a little bit taller, and I’m stuck looking up from below, wondering why that has to matter so damn much.
4o
. You may be lacking dimorphism and be a femcel especially due to your height it adds to the femcel look and no facial hair. Add dimorphism to your look
