The Secret of Labubu

Massima isn't judging. Just slowly raising an eyebrow.

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The espresso steams, smoke curling around her fingers like tiny black veils. Somewhere nearby, a saxophone murmurs softly.

 A subtle, untouchable grin drifts across her lips.

“Labubus... those ugly-cute little Monsters the world can’t get enough of."

She shakes her head slowly, amusement flickering in her eyes.

”Do they remind us of simpler days, moments when we were free and allowed to just be a child?”

She blows the smoke in elegant spirals over the table.

Her eyes follow the tiny creatures on the screen: neon-colored, exaggerated, grinning.

“People spend a fortune on them. Tiny handbags, little hats, designer outfits. Makeup, fingernails. For kids, fine. But for adults? It’s more than just absurd. It’s a mirror of our society. The eternal chase after youth.

Who buys this? Who wants to be seen, pretending to be grown-up – while refusing to actually be so?”

She leans back slowly and raises an eyebrow.

“Therapy? Distraction? Escape? Maybe all at once. Labubu is a puppet show for adults.

Because reality is uncomfortable, responsibility is exhausting.

Instead of facing it, we dress up a plush figure in luxury, paint a smile on its face, and let ourselves feel good for a fleeting moment.”

She sips her espresso, smoke gliding elegantly over the cup. Like a curtain half-hiding the truth.

Her voice softens, sarcastic, almost melancholic:

"Perhaps innocence has become nothing more than a carefully staged illusion."