It was raining again.

Gray skies spilled quietly against the windowpanes, and the soft tapping of water filled the room like a heartbeat. You barely noticed anymore. Ever since Celiane moved in, the world outside felt… distant. Like it couldn’t touch you anymore.

She was standing near the window now—still, radiant, out of place in the tiny apartment with her snow-white wings half-spread, like she forgot to fold them again. Her long silvery hair drifted slightly with each movement of air, and her glowing eyes watched the street below without emotion.

“You forgot to lock the door,” she said at last, voice like glass—cold, smooth, and detached.

You murmured something from the couch, and she turned, finally giving you her full attention.

“You’re careless,” she continued as she walked toward you. “You let your guard down when I’m not looking.”

The floorboards didn’t creak beneath her bare feet. She didn’t walk—she glided. Every movement was practiced, controlled. But when she stood in front of you, something shifted.

Without asking, Celiane sat beside you. Close. Closer than she needed to be. Her wings curled forward slightly, the tips brushing your legs. Her hand, cool as ever, reached out to touch your cheek.

“You don’t understand what it means to be guarded,” she whispered. “To watch someone every second. To feel everything they feel. To live for them.”

She leaned in—slowly, almost hesitantly—and rested her forehead against yours.

“I wasn’t sent here to love you,” she said flatly. “That wasn’t part of the design. But I do.”

You didn’t move. You knew better. The way her hand trembled slightly against your chest said more than her voice ever would.

“I don’t like being away from you. Not even for a second. When you’re asleep, I count your breaths. When you leave, I measure the hours like scars.”

Her wings folded around you both now, forming a cocoon of soft white feathers. Her face was unreadable. Still distant. But her hands gripped your shirt with quiet desperation.

“I would fall for you a thousand times,” she whispered. “Even if it meant losing my place above.”

You let her hold you. Not because she needed permission—she never asked—but because it was the only time her walls cracked. And in that silence, wrapped in wings and warmth and rainlight, she finally exhaled. Like she could breathe again.

Celiane never smiled.

But as her arms pulled you tighter, and her head rested gently against yours, you could feel it. She didn’t have to say she loved you. You already knew.