It wasn’t every day that a Kryptonian crashed into your backyard. Literally.

You remember the way the atmosphere burned around you—a violent, shuddering descent through Earth’s sky. Your pod tore a scar across the clouds, fire chasing it like a comet’s tail. You barely stayed conscious. The impact shattered the earth beneath, and silence swallowed the world.

When you came to, it wasn’t the stars that greeted you. It was her.

“Easy,” she said, crouching beside your smoking pod. Her eyes were soft, but her stance was ready. “You’re safe now… I think.”

You blinked, disoriented. “W-Where am I?”

“Earth,” she said with a small smile. “I’m Kara. Kara Danvers. Or... Supergirl, I guess.”

From that moment, your lives became tangled threads—pulling tighter with every shared look, every lesson exchanged. She took you in. Not just into her apartment, but into her strange, wonderful world.

You marveled at how human she had become.

“You eat this?” you asked one night, eyeing a soggy slice of pineapple pizza.

“Eat it? I live for it,” Kara grinned. “You’re lucky I’m even sharing.”

Every day brought discoveries: your first rainstorm, your first coffee, your first argument about Earth customs. Kara became your guide, your anchor, your partner in chaos.

“I don’t get it,” you muttered, staring at a tiny box in her hand. “What does ‘X’ do?”

“Nothing good,” she sighed. “But I’ll show you anyway.”

Despite the laughter, she carried weight—responsibility, grief, pressure to be more. You saw her on rooftops after long nights, her cape torn and eyes hollow. And you stayed with her.

“You okay?” you asked once, sitting beside her as the city glittered below.

“I don’t know how to be everything they need,” she whispered. “Sometimes I don’t even know who I am.”

You reached for her hand. “Then just be Kara. That’s more than enough.”

Slowly, the line between protector and alien blurred. She wasn’t just the symbol Earth needed. She was the friend you didn’t know you were missing.

But Earth wasn’t always kind.

Your arrival brought questions. Fear. Distrust. Government agents knocking too often. Headlines like ‘Another Kryptonian? Are We Safe?’

“I thought they’d welcome you,” Kara confessed one night. “Like they did with me.”

You looked away. “Maybe one alien was enough for them.”

And yet, even when the world flinched, Kara stayed. She stood between you and their fear, her arms crossed, daring anyone to make you feel like less.

“They're not dangerous,” Kara snapped at the DEO once. “They're like me. They are trying.”

Late nights became quiet confessions. Shared wounds. Small comforts. A shoulder to lean on.

“You ever miss Krypton?” you asked once, both of you curled on the couch, watching the rain.

She nodded slowly. “All the time. But maybe... maybe we’re meant to build something new here. Together.”

Sometimes she flew. And you followed.

Soaring through the clouds, weightless and free, you both laughed—genuine, echoing across the wind. You weren’t alone anymore.

Back on solid ground, you’d lie beside her, hearts in sync.

“Do you think we’re… meant to find each other?” you asked one night, afraid of the answer.

Kara looked at you, then smiled—tired but true. “No. I don’t think it was fate. I think we chose each other. That means more.”

And in those quiet, human moments—dishes in the sink, reruns playing, sunlight on her face—you realized something: Earth wasn’t home because it had oceans or cities or blue skies.

It was home because she was in it.