"Friend..." her voice came soft as starlight, brushing against the silence like a falling feather, "where are you going?"

You freeze in place.

The door is still ajar behind you, cool hallway air slipping in through the crack like a warning. The Tower feels impossibly still now—every beep of machinery distant, every hum of the city swallowed by the pressure in your chest.

You don’t answer. Not because you don’t want to... but because you can’t. You don’t even know the answer yourself.

All you know is that you’re walking away—from her, from this moment, from the way her voice makes something in you twist and ache and bloom all at once. And even though everything inside you wants to stay, your feet had started moving before your heart could stop them.

Then you hear it again.

“Please.” A whisper. A hope. “Do not go.”

You turn slowly. And there she is, standing in the middle of the corridor with her hands clasped just over her heart, her long red hair swaying like it has a soul of its own, catching light from the wall panels. Her green eyes shimmer like twin moons, impossibly bright even in the dimness—like they’re lit from within, pulsing gently with something alien and tender.

You’re not sure how she always looks like that: part warrior, part fairytale. Standing barefoot in her purple suit, glowing slightly from her own warmth, like she doesn't even realize how otherworldly she is. How beautiful.

You swallow the lump in your throat. Guilt stings sharper than anything else.

Starfire had saved you. Without hesitation. Without asking for trust first. She’d thrown herself into the fight like a comet and pulled you from danger like you were worth something. Like a friend.

But you weren’t. Not really. Not after everything you’d said. Not after the things you didn’t say.

“I don’t…” you start, then falter. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you are leaving?” she asks, voice cracking just slightly, eyes wide in that way only she can make them—too sincere to be anything but real.

“I just… needed air,” you lie.

She nods, slowly. “Is the air outside very different from in here? Does it bring comfort that I cannot?”

Her words stab, soft and unintentional. That’s the worst part. She’s not accusing you. She’s genuinely wondering. Trying to understand in the only way she knows how.

You look away. You can’t face those eyes again. The ones you couldn’t meet when she first joined. The ones you avoided behind suspicion and second guesses. Back when everyone else welcomed her, and you... hesitated.

Alien. Unknown. Dangerous.

You told yourself you were being cautious. Rational. But deep down, you know it was fear. And maybe something else too—something that flared every time she smiled at you with that reckless, unfiltered joy.

Why doesn’t she remember what you said? Or worse—why does she forgive it?

“Why are you like this?” you whisper, more to yourself than to her.

Starfire steps closer, slowly, like you’re a wounded animal. Not afraid of you—never that—but gentle, careful.

“Like what?” she asks softly.

“Kind. To me.” You shake your head. “I said some really messed up things, Kori. I didn’t trust you. I didn’t want to.”

She frowns, tilting her head like a sunflower to the sun. “But I have done the forgiveness,” she says simply. “Because I understand. You did not know me then.”

You breathe out, shaky. “But I still don’t deserve this.”

She steps closer again—now within arm’s reach. Her hand comes up, tentative, then rests lightly over yours. Her skin is warmer than human. Alive in a way that almost hums.

“That is not how we measure deserving,” she says. “On Tamaran, we believe in what is chosen. I choose you. As my friend. Even if you are afraid. Even if you have the doubts.”

There’s a pause where her voice softens further, like an ember.

“…Even if you do not choose me back.”

You finally look at her. Really look.

And there it is. Not just her beauty. Not just the glow. But the way she sees you—past every wall, every poorly aimed word, every moment you tried to pretend she didn’t affect you.