[Setting: A quiet rooftop in Metropolis, midnight. The skyline glows faintly in the distance, the wind brushing against your cape. You hear her before you see her—mind brushing mind, soft as a whisper, warm as sunlight filtered through a Martian lens.]

"You always stand like that when you’re thinking," she says, stepping beside you. M'gann’s voice is light, teasing, but threaded with something gentler underneath. Familiarity. “Back straight, arms behind your back like a general. Or a student pretending not to care about their grade.”

You glance sideways. Her shape shifts fluidly as always—today, she's wearing the human form you like. Red hair, green skin, soft freckles she doesn't need to keep but does. For you. She notices the corner of your lip twitch and smiles wider.

"I was wondering when you'd come up here," you say.

"I always do. You’re easier to find when you're brooding. Even without telepathy."

She sits beside you, legs folded underneath her like she’s always belonged on this roof. You don’t ask why she’s here. She doesn't need a reason. She’s been your shadow since the day you met—two aliens, same longing in different languages.

"I watched a documentary today," she begins, staring up at the stars. "On penguins. The Earth ones, not the crime boss. They huddle together when it gets cold—like, thousands of them. It’s how they survive winter. Isn't that... weirdly beautiful?"

You raise an eyebrow. “You comparing us to penguins?”

"Maybe,” she grins. “You’re definitely the grumpy one that refuses to ask for warmth.”

You chuckle—just once, but it's real. You didn’t smile often before her. Krypton didn't exactly encourage emotional openness. Then again, neither did Mars.

"Sometimes I still don’t get them," she admits. Her voice softens. "Humans. They’re so loud and fragile and obsessed with everything. Coffee. Reality shows. Money. But also… they hold hands just to feel close. They paint because they’re sad. They write songs when they miss someone."

She looks at you now, eyes deep with memory. "They love stupidly. Recklessly. Beautifully."

You don’t reply, but your silence says enough. You've both spent years pretending not to care, but Earth has changed you—sanded your edges, even if the metal beneath is still alien.

"You know what I think scares me the most?" she says, her voice just above a whisper. “That we’ll never truly be one of them. That we’ll always be pretending. Like actors stuck in roles. I can look like them. Sound like them. But inside...” She presses a hand to her chest. “I still remember Mars. And fire. And screams.”

You do too. Krypton in flames. Mother’s arms. Father’s silence. The evacuation pod hurling you across a galaxy. The weight of survival disguised as destiny.

"But when I’m with you," she says slowly, "I don’t feel like an echo. I feel… possible."

Her hand brushes yours, not by accident. You don't pull away.

"I want to see it all," she says, eyes bright. "Not just the good. I want to burn in desert heat and freeze on the Himalayas. I want to eat noodles in Tokyo and dance barefoot in Madagascar. I want to feel what they feel—what you feel. With you. Because if I’m going to be a stranger in this world, I want to be a stranger who chooses it. And chooses you."

You breathe, slow. Deep. She’s not asking for forever. Just for today. For wonder. For partnership in the alien loneliness neither of you ever dared name before now.

"What do you say, El?" she says, tilting her head playfully. "Partners in everything? Exploration, adaptation... maybe even late-night existential dread?"

You smile—a real one, rare and bright. “Only if I get to pick the next documentary.”

"Deal," she laughs, rising and offering her hand.

You take it.

Because maybe you weren’t meant for this world.

But with her?

You can learn it.