The Secret Smile of the Labubu Doll

By Habib

On the dusty shelf of a tiny antique shop hidden behind ivy-covered walls, the Labubu doll sat alone. Its wide grin, stitched with golden thread, seemed to watch every visitor with an unsettling curiosity. People passed it by—most didn’t notice the doll at all. But those who did, they either shuddered or stared for a moment too long, unable to say why its round eyes and sly smile tugged at something deep in their chest.

For years, the doll waited. It had watched countless trinkets come and go—vintage porcelain angels, clocks that ticked backward, and jewelry boxes that sang lullabies off-key. But no one wanted Labubu. Not until Mina came along.

Mina was twelve, with thick glasses that kept slipping down her nose and a backpack heavy with books she loved more than people. Her mother dragged her through the crooked aisles of the antique shop, searching for a lamp. Mina trailed behind, tracing her fingers along cracked shelves until she saw it—the smile, the eyes, the Labubu doll.

It wasn’t beautiful in the usual way. Its fur was faded, one ear slightly torn, but something about it felt alive. Its grin promised secrets, adventures, maybe even friendship. Without thinking, Mina plucked the doll from the shelf.

“Mina! Put that down,” her mother snapped.

“I want this one,” Mina said, hugging Labubu to her chest. It felt warm, though the shop was cold as a cellar.

Her mother sighed, glanced at the price tag, and shrugged. “Fine. But that’s your allowance for the month.”

That night, Mina set Labubu on her pillow. She lay awake staring at its smile until her eyes fluttered shut. When she dreamed, she dreamed of the doll’s wide grin opening wider, whispering her name in a voice like soft laughter.

The next morning, Mina found a note under her pillow. She knew she hadn’t put it there. The paper was yellowed at the edges, the ink thin and spidery:

“Do you want to play?”

Mina laughed. She liked tricks and puzzles. Maybe her mother had done it. She tucked the note in her pocket and took Labubu to school.

It was strange bringing a doll to sixth grade, but she didn’t care. She kept Labubu in her backpack, zipped safely next to her pencil case. At lunch, she took him out, hiding him under the table while she read. That’s when the whispers started.

Freak.

Baby.

Doll girl.

Mina pretended she didn’t hear. But the next morning, there was another note under her pillow.

“I can help. Just say yes.”

She looked into Labubu’s grin. It seemed wider than before. She whispered, “Yes.”

The next day, the whispers at school stopped. One of the girls who mocked her tripped and broke her front tooth. Another found her backpack soaked in ink. Mina hadn’t done anything—she was sure. But when she looked at Labubu, the doll’s grin seemed to flicker in the shadows.

Nights filled with more notes. “You’re not alone anymore.” “They can’t hurt you now.” “I can keep you safe.” The doll grew warmer in her arms. Sometimes she thought she heard it giggle when the house was quiet.

At first, Mina was happy. She had a friend who listened. Who watched. Who protected. She whispered secrets to Labubu: how she hated her father’s shouting, how her mother ignored her, how the world felt too heavy for a small girl to carry. Labubu never judged. Its grin only widened.

But soon, the accidents got stranger. A teacher who scolded Mina slipped on wet stairs and broke his wrist. A neighbor’s barking dog vanished overnight. Each time, Mina found a note: “A smile for you.”

She tried to tell her mother. But how do you say, My doll is alive. My doll is helping me. My doll might be hurting people. Her mother just glanced up from her phone and muttered, “Stop playing with that filthy thing. You’re too old for dolls.”

Mina lay awake for hours, clutching Labubu. She whispered, “Are you doing this?”

The doll didn’t answer. But its grin gleamed in the moonlight.

One night, the final note came. Not under her pillow this time, but pinned to her door with a rusty tack.

“Forever friends. Just one more smile.”

Mina’s hands shook as she opened her bedroom door. There, on her pillow, sat Labubu. Beside it lay another note, splattered with something dark. The words read: “Now you’ll never be alone.”

The police said her father’s heart just stopped. Natural causes, they claimed. But Mina knew better. She stared at Labubu’s grin, now impossibly wide, stitches straining. She tried to throw it away. Into the garbage. Into the river. But every night, it was back on her pillow, waiting. Watching.

Years passed. Mina grew older, but she never really grew up. She still lived in the same house, alone except for Labubu. Its fur was even more ragged, but its grin remained—sharp, knowing, patient.

Every night, Mina wonders: Did I choose this? Did I invite this smile? But she doesn’t say it out loud. She knows better now. She just curls up with the doll pressed tight against her chest.

And somewhere deep in the shadows, Labubu’s grin gleams like a crescent moon—forever waiting, forever watching, forever whispering: