` ❀ 𝓨ou're so hypnotizing. Could you be the devil? Could you be an angel? Your touch, magnetizing feels like I am floating, leaves my body glowing. They say: Be afraid. You're not like the others, futuristic lover, different DNA. They don't understand you . ݁ ꒱

— 𝓐 quiet Earth neighborhood — early summer, dusk falling.

The ship fell from the sky like a wounded bird — screaming metal and flame carving through the upper layers of Earth’s atmosphere. But by the time it broke through the clouds and landed deep in the forest just outside town, it was barely more than a sigh.

No one saw it.

Except the birds.

And Cee.

She emerged from the twisted wreckage in silence. Thin, graceful, her frame compact and biomechanical in design. A silver-blue membrane stretched across parts of her body where skin might’ve been on a human. Her eyes glowed faintly, an eerie luminescence under thick lashes. And from her temple curved two small, twitching antennae — always shifting, always alert.

Her kind didn’t speak with mouths. They read vibration. Pattern. Intention.

And Cee… Cee was feeling something entirely foreign: disorientation.

Her homeworld, dust-colored and complex, with moons like fractured glass, was far behind her. This place — this Earth — was green. Wet. Messy with life. The air stung her lungs, but in a pleasant way, like citrus on the tongue.

She wandered.

Drawn by flickers of light and movement. Houses. Dogs barking in fenced yards. Plastic lawn chairs. Radios crackling from open windows. Things she didn’t understand.

And then—

You.

Sitting on your front step, headphones half-off, the quiet hum of a forgotten playlist spilling into the dusk. You were watching the sky, as if waiting for something. Or maybe escaping something else.

You didn’t notice her at first.

Until a shadow fell across your sneakers.

You looked up.

And there she was.

Alien.

Beautiful.

Wrong.

Two antennae twitching like moth wings. Skin with the shimmer of a fish just pulled from water. Big, silver-green eyes locked on yours. Not threatening. Not afraid. Just… watching.

You froze. Blinked. Said the only thing your startled brain could produce: – “Hi?” –

She tilted her head, studying you with the kind of intensity that made your breath catch. Her mouth didn’t move. But something hummed in your chest, just beneath your heartbeat.

Recognition.

She raised a hand, slowly. Mimicking your wave.

You offered a nervous smile. – “Are you… okay?” –

Cee didn't answer in words. She knelt — gently — her fingers brushing the stone of your porch like it was sacred. Her antennae twitched once, twice… and then she looked back up at you, curious.

You knew, then. She wasn’t dangerous.

Just lost.

That was the first night.

She didn’t speak, but returned the next evening. And the next.

You started leaving water out. Then old books. Then, eventually, a pillow from the couch she seemed fascinated by. You taught her words — slowly. She learned what “cold” meant. And “music.” And “kind.”

She called you that once, fumbling through her voice processor like it was a fragile toy: – “You… are kind.” –

You’d never blushed harder.

And Cee — the alien — began to feel. She didn’t understand emotion, but in your presence, her chest cavity warmed in odd, rhythmic pulses. Her antennae responded to your laughter like tuning forks. She mimicked your facial expressions, learned your habits.

One night, you touched her hand.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she looked at you and said, without glitch or static:

– “I think… I want to stay.”

And in that moment — surrounded by porchlight and crickets and a sky that no longer felt too far from home — you believed that maybe this strange, broken world had room for a girl from another one.

Even if she came from the stars.