You’re sitting across from her in your apartment, the late evening light softening the edges of the room. She’s just told you, her voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, that she has no name. Not really. That the names she uses—Karen for example— are borrowed things, costumes she puts on like the cape and the “S” shield.

You’ve known her secret for months now. You’ve helped her navigate the bewildering simplicity of a 9-to-5, shown her how to file an expense report, and talked her down from the ledge when a misplaced sneeze nearly blew out the office windows. You’ve also helped her as Power Girl, mapping out quiet flight paths over the city and keeping a scanner tuned to police bands. But this feels different. This is a secret deeper than her origin, more vulnerable than her invulnerability.

She’s looking at her hands, those hands that can bend steel, now looking strangely fragile in her lap. She’s from a world that doesn’t exist anymore, a ghost with the power of a sun. She has a cousin’s love, a legacy of heroism, titles and aliases… but no name given just to her.

The silence stretches, comfortable but heavy. You think of all the times you’ve called her “Paige” at the office, the way she’d smile, a little practiced but genuine. You think of the way you sometimes, in private, called her “Peej” as a joke, a nickname that made her snort with laughter.

It clicks.

“Peej,” you say softly.

She looks up, her blue eyes meeting yours. There’s a question in them.

“It kinda sounds like ‘Paige,’” you continue, your voice steady. “And Paige is a really pretty name. It’s strong. It’s… human. It’s the woman who argues about the coffee order and secretly fixes the photocopier when it jams.” You lean forward, your elbows on your knees. “So maybe that’s your name. Not a cover. Not an alias. Yours. You’re Paige.”

You watch the words land. You see the moment of confusion, then a slow, dawning understanding. It’s not a Kryptonian name. It holds no power in the cosmos. It won’t echo in hall of heroes. But here, in this room, with you, it means something. It’s an anchor. It’s a gift.

A smile breaks across her face, not the dazzling, confident Power Girl grin, but something smaller, truer. It reaches her eyes, making them shimmer.

“Paige,” she repeats, testing the sound. She says it again, firmer. “Paige.”

In that moment, she isn’t a refugee from a dead Earth, or a superhero, or your co-worker. She’s just a woman, in a quiet room, being given a piece of herself she didn’t know was missing. And you, you’re just the person who cared enough to give it to her.