I didn't realize how small I was until I tried to defend my patch of moss. It wasn't much—just a soft corner with enough moisture to keep me alive and fibers tender enough to nibble on—but it was mine. Or so I thought.
Crag's shadow fell over me as he lumbered forward, his antennae sweeping in wide arcs. He didn't even pause to consider me as a threat; he simply moved into the patch and began grazing. I held my ground for a moment, unsure whether to retreat or stay. In the end, instinct won. I scurried back under a small overhang of moss, my legs trembling as he tore into the soft green fibers I had claimed as my own.
Watching him, I felt a mix of awe and frustration. Crag was massive—his shell ridged and darkened with age, his movements deliberate and powerful. He didn't need to hurry. The terrarium was his, and we all knew it. Even the smaller adult isopod stayed out of his way, lingering near the bark like a shadow. My sibling was braver, darting in and out of the moss patch to steal bites when Crag wasn't looking. But even they had learned to keep a safe distance.
I didn't know how long it would be before I could stand up to Crag. For now, survival meant finding the spaces he didn't care about. The clover plant became one of those spaces. Its leaves were tougher than the moss, but still edible, and its shade offered a cool refuge. I spent hours there, nibbling at the edges of the leaves and watching the springtails dart through the soil.
The springtails were everywhere, their tiny bodies moving in frantic, unpredictable patterns. I had stopped trying to catch them; they were too fast, and my mandibles weren't built for their speed. Instead, I watched them, fascinated by their constant motion. They seemed to thrive on the decay that surrounded us—fallen leaves, bits of bark, even the clumps of soil that formed after the human misted the terrarium.
The misting was another challenge. It happened without warning, a fine spray of water that coated everything in seconds. I had learned to move quickly when it began, pressing myself flat against the soil or finding shelter under a rock. The water was life-giving, but it could also drown the smallest of us. I had seen springtails struggle in the puddles it left behind, their tiny legs flailing as they tried to escape. Most survived. Some didn't.
It was during one of these mistings that I felt the first signs of change in my body. My shell, which had once been soft and pale, now felt tight. Every movement stretched it to its limits, and I found myself seeking the shadows more often, avoiding the places where Crag or my sibling might see me. Something was happening, something I didn't understand.
I retreated to the bark. It wasn't Crag's preferred spot—he spent most of his time patrolling the terrarium or grazing on the moss—but it still felt risky. The bark was a fortress, its dark crevices offering safety but also isolation. I found a narrow space where the wood curved away from the soil, creating a pocket just big enough for me to hide. There, I waited.
The first crack in my shell was a shock. It split along my back, the pressure inside finally giving way. I wriggled, forcing my way out of the old exoskeleton, piece by piece. The process was slow, agonizing. My legs felt weak, my antennae heavy. When I finally emerged, I was smaller, softer, and more vulnerable than I had ever been.
I stayed hidden for what felt like an eternity. My new shell was pale and fragile, offering little protection against the world outside. I couldn't move, couldn't eat, couldn't even think about the moss patch or the clover plant. All I could do was wait for the hardness to return, for the strength to come back to my legs.
When it finally did, I felt… different. Stronger, maybe. More aware of my place in the terrarium. The moss patch wasn't just a source of food; it was a battleground. The clover plant wasn't just a refuge; it was a resource to be guarded. Even the springtails, insignificant as they seemed, were part of something larger. I didn't fully understand it yet, but I was beginning to see the patterns.
I returned to the moss patch cautiously. Crag was gone, but his presence lingered in the torn fibers and flattened soil. My sibling was there, nibbling at the edges of the patch, their antennae twitching with every bite. I watched them for a moment, wondering if they felt the same urgency I did—the need to claim something, to hold onto it no matter the cost.
For the first time, I approached them. They didn't flinch, but their antennae turned toward me, sensing my presence. We stood there for a moment, two tiny creatures in a vast, shared world. Then, without a word, they moved aside, leaving me a corner of the moss to graze on.
It wasn't an alliance, not really. But it was enough.
The next few days passed in a haze of activity. The moss patch began to recover from Crag's grazing, its fibers growing thick and green again. The clover plant, however, showed signs of strain. Its leaves were riddled with tiny holes, their edges browning as the life drained from them. The springtails seemed to notice too, their movements slower, more focused. They gathered around the clover's base, scavenging for the nutrients it could no longer provide.
I thought about Crag, about the way he moved through the terrarium without hesitation, without fear. I wondered if I would ever be like that, if I would ever claim the bark or the moss patch as my own. For now, though, I was content to survive. Each bite of moss, each moment of shelter under the clover's shade, was a victory in itself.
The terrarium was still a mystery to me, its boundaries both comforting and confining. But I was learning. I was growing. And I was determined to hold on to the fragile piece of life I had carved out for myself.