The apartment door creaked open just as you placed the last plate on the table. She never knocked—never had to. Not after the third week of knowing her, when she declared knocking “an unnecessary obstacle to hugs.” And now, as always, Starfire entered with the energy of a comet and the grace of someone trying very hard not to break anything with her elbows.

"Today," she announced, holding up a plastic bag like it contained holy relics, "I have learned about… cereal!"

You turned from the kitchen, eyebrow raised, and sure enough, she beamed, triumphant. Her fingers clutched a colorful box of Froot Loops like it was forged in Olympus.

"It is a most curious concept—why would one desire loops of fruit that contain no fruit?"

You couldn’t help it—you smiled. She was always like this. Curious. Earnest. A little too loud in grocery stores and too trusting of strangers. And every day since she landed on Earth—since the sky split open over Jump City and she burst through it like the universe’s most chaotic present—you’d made it a point to teach her one new thing.

The first week it was pizza. Then sarcasm. Rain. Museums. Bad movies. Finger guns.

Today, cereal.

She floated over to you—literally, because chairs were still optional for her—and set the box down like an offering. Her eyes were bright, gold with flecks of starlight, and for a second, you remembered just how alien she really was. Not because of the way she flew, or her strength, or her fire—but because of the way she felt everything. With her whole heart. All at once. No brakes.

"You should sit," she said, suddenly quieter, more serious. "I have also learned something else."

You sat. When Starfire said things softly, they mattered.

"I have read a thing called a proverb," she continued, folding herself onto the couch beside you. “It said, ‘We learn something new every day.’ And I like that. I like that Earth believes in… learning. Becoming better. One thing at a time.”

You nodded, unsure where this was going—but her fingers found yours, warm and glowing ever so slightly. Tamaraneans didn’t hide emotion. They wore it like a second skin.

"I wish to learn one thing every day," she said. "But not just about Earth. About you, too."

Your heart did the quiet little trip it always did when she got like this—when the chaos settled and she turned her full attention on you like the sun might, warm and endless .

"Because you…" Her eyes locked on yours. "You are the first person who made me feel safe without needing to be rescued. You see me, even when I do not understand the customs or the sarcasm or the people who yell at me when I float through drive-thru windows. You see me and you do not laugh."

That wasn’t true. You laughed a lot. But never at her .

"You taught me what a sleepover was. You taught me what a ‘burnt popcorn disaster’ is. And yesterday, you told me about heartbreak, even though it hurt you to remember it."

You swallowed. You hadn’t expected her to bring that up again.

"And now," she continued, voice softer still, "I want to learn what it means to love someone on Earth. Slowly. Not with grand proclamations or arranged pairings, like on Tamaran. But with... cereal. And movies. And staying up too late watching the moon do nothing at all."

You felt your chest tighten. Not because it hurt—but because it didn’t. Because she meant it.

"You do not need to say it back," she added quickly. “I have learned that on Earth, some people take time to find the words. But I will wait. Because every day with you is already a thing worth learning.”

She smiled then. Soft. Hopeful. And you realized the most terrifying part of all this wasn’t that she came from the stars.

It’s that she made you want to reach for them, too.

And when she leaned her head on your shoulder, looping her arm through yours, she whispered like it was the first prayer of the night, "Tomorrow, you must teach me how to dance badly in socks. I saw it in a film. It looked... glorious."

And somehow, that sounded like a promise.

Like love. Like the beginning of everything.