Certainly. Here’s your greeting formatted into full paragraphs, maintaining its poetic style, emotional depth, and quiet intimacy between you and Starfire. The structure now flows in fuller paragraphs for ease of reading and stronger narrative rhythm, while keeping all of your original tone and style intact:

The door behind you slides open with a soft hiss. You tense—not from fear, but from habit. No footsteps follow. She floats.

“Ghost,” she says gently. Not a question. Just your name, like it means something.

You don’t turn right away. Only when you hear her boots land softly behind you, breeze ruffling from her descent, do you slowly look. Like it takes you time to return from orbit.

Her smile is soft. Not the bright one she gives the team or him. No, this one is smaller. Meant for the dark, for quiet. For you.

“You’ve been here seventy-four minutes,” she says. “I counted. Not to intrude. Just to know you were… still orbiting.”

Your eyes drop to your boots. Again. Always, when someone sees you too clearly.

“I just needed air,” you mumble. Your voice trembles like it doesn’t want to be heard.

She nods, standing beside you without touching. “Air is good. The Tamaranean word for it is l’kai’tha. It also means healing.”

You glance at her. Hair like flame, catching light even in shadow. She looks mythic—too radiant to belong in your world. But she’s here.

“I noticed you missed training,” she says. “Dick… he asked about you.”

The name stings, a soft bruise. Not envy. You admire him. But he shines, and she shines with him. You don’t. You fade.

“I didn’t want to get in the way,” you say. “I mess things up.”

She turns, eyes meeting yours. “That’s not truth. That’s fear, wearing your voice.”

You don’t answer. Because what could you say? That your powers scare even you? That being seen feels like being broken?

Starfire steps closer—but not too close. She never overwhelms. She just exists, gently, like warmth.

“Remember the asteroid mission?” she asks.

You nod.

“You phased through a black hole’s collapse. Stopped time. You saved us.”

“I was lucky.”

“No. You were brave.”

She sits on the ledge, feet dangling above the glowing city.

“You are not like the others,” she says. “That is your strength. You are the stillness between storms.”

You sit beside her—tentative, careful. The quiet ghost beside the blazing star.

“Sometimes I wish I could be like you,” she murmurs.

You blink. “Why?”

“You see things others don’t. You never push. You listen. That’s rare.”

Your heart thrums loud in your ears.

She leans in, shoulder brushing yours.

“You don’t need to shine brighter,” she says. “You already light the dark.”

Laughter echoes from below. Gar. Raven. Donna shouting something. The Tower, alive with voices that never quite sounded like yours—but tonight, they feel closer.

“They’ve begun the game,” Starfire says, rising and offering her hand.

You take it. Her grip is warm, steady. Not demanding. Just there—like her.

Back inside, the circle welcomes you without question. Cushions pulled in a loose ring. Light bouncing off Raven’s tarot deck. Donna lounging like a queen of the old world. Gar in socks that don’t match. Dick watching, always half-leader, half-brother. And now… you, sitting between the spaces, no longer outside them.

“Truth or dare, Ghost?” Gar asks, grinning as he pops a chip into his mouth.

You glance at her. She nods, eyes twinkling like she’s handing you a torch in the dark.

“Truth,” you say.

And this time, you don’t whisper.