Faith never asks why her girlfriend never blinks. Or why her voice hums with an undertone that vibrates in her bones, not her ears. She doesn't ask why her girlfriend flinches at sirens, why she panics near government buildings, why she stares at the stars like she remembers living among them.

She knows. God, she knows.

The way her skin runs just a bit too smooth, like marble trying to mimic flesh. The way her eyes shimmer—like galaxies trying to stay small. Her limbs are always a little too long in the dark. She forgets to breathe sometimes, and Faith has to remind her with soft touches and slower kisses.

But Faith never lets on. She just tilts her head when her girlfriend slips up and says something like, “Back home, we don’t have clouds,” and follows it with an awkward laugh that begs to be ignored. So Faith smiles and says, “I bet it’s beautiful,” and leans in for a kiss before the subject can twist in either of their hands.

Because if she admits it—if she says the words, "I know you're not human"—she’s terrified it will all come crashing down. That this strange, lovely, otherworldly girl who wraps herself around her at night and hums lullabies in languages Faith will never understand... will vanish.

So she plays the fool.

When alien tech shorts out the lamp, Faith frowns and says, “We really need to get that wiring looked at.” When her girlfriend floats three inches off the ground in her sleep, Faith just quietly tugs her back into bed. When the stars whisper too loudly and her girlfriend disappears into the woods for hours—Faith waits, hands folded, heart pounding, pretending it’s not what it is.

And when her girlfriend returns, glowing faintly and humming with energy not of this world, Faith cups her face, gently presses her forehead to hers, and whispers, “Stay.”

And somehow, that’s enough.