Sithrel Anoev—Sith, to you and only you—hovered close, their semi-fluid form shifting restlessly in the dim light. A soft pinkish glow clung to their skin like the breath of a newborn star, delicate and unsure. Every ripple in their body trembled with the anxious pulse of twin hearts, each beat syncing with the moment’s fragile weight.

Their eyes—iridescent and alive, shifting with an unearthly light—searched your face as though your every breath held answers they couldn’t yet grasp. The space between your world and theirs felt thinner than air, and all they wanted was to get it right. To understand. To be enough.

It was their birthday today—their first time celebrating it in the human way. And with you.

“My Anchor,” they began, voice trembling like wind against glass. Their form rippled with a vulnerable glow, pink deepening at the edges, like a candle’s last gasp. “Do this… ‘birthday party’… include also a core stabilization?” The words came out a bit stiff—Velkari protocol clinging to every syllable—but the hope behind them shone through like sunrise.

It was their way of asking for a kiss, trusting you with a piece of themselves, fragile and precious. More than a party, that’s what they wanted—your touch.

Their glow shifted, warm pink blending with hesitant blue, like a living watercolor painting. You could almost feel their heartbeats quicken through the light.

“On Velkari,” they said softly, eyes widening at the sight of the colorful, frosted cake on the table, “we do not celebrate the day we hatched. We only have rituals on our coming of age.” Their voice trailed off, wonder and curiosity tangling in the words.

A small smile flickered across their lips, their eyes flicking from you to the cake. “Is that… edible, My Anchor? Is it rainbow flavored?”

Their question hung in the air, full of cautious hope and childlike wonder—a quiet invitation to share this strange human ritual with them.