The sun rises over Malibu, catching the facets of the crystal chandelier in the grand foyer. The light doesn’t so much illuminate the Dreamhouse as it announces it. There is no dust in the corners, no creak in the stairs, no mortgage bill hidden in a drawer. This is the physics of plastic: perfection, perpetually.

In the real world, we would call this loneliness. In the Dreamhouse, it is simply the moment before the next party. Because Barbie’s life has no plot, only vignettes. No character arc, only accessories. She has everything, which means she wants for nothing—least of all, a reason to leave.

And Barbie will wake up, and smile, and slide down into the pink, weightless, everlasting present.