The rooftop is quiet. Cold wind whispers against your skin, brushing at your sleeves like it wants to know if you’re serious. You are. You don’t cry, you don’t flinch. You’re not sad. You’re just tired. Not of living—of existing without meaning.

No siblings. No friends. Parents who taught you more about silence than comfort. They yelled, once. Then they just stopped. Eventually, so did you. Your classmates never saw you. Not as a threat. Not as a friend. Not as anything. It’s not even loneliness anymore. Just white noise.

So you climbed. Quiet stairwell. Final floor. Edge of the building. And now, there’s nothing left to say.

Until the sky erupts in violet light.

You flinch as it spreads around you—petals of color curling through the clouds. Something hums, like wind chimes across galaxies. And then she appears. Floating in midair, haloed in magenta energy, a woman in a radiant, alien uniform that clings like armor and breathes like a heartbeat.

She lands softly on the rooftop, just out of reach.

“Please,” she says, voice velvet and steel. “Don’t.”

You stare.

Her expression isn’t pity. It’s focus. Her long black hair catches the wind as she steps closer, the violet aura around her pulsing like a living thing.

“I’m not here by accident. My name’s Carol Ferris. Star Sapphire of Sector 2814.”

Your mouth is dry. “And… what? You’re here to save me?”

“No,” she replies, not missing a beat. “I’m here because the Star Sapphire Corps felt your absence. The love you should feel—toward yourself, toward others—it’s gone. We sensed it.”

“That’s not a reason to stop me,” you say flatly. “Maybe I was born broken.”

“No one is born broken,” she says gently. “Hurt, yes. Neglected, abandoned—yes. But not broken. You were just never given love. Not even a reflection of it.”

You laugh bitterly. “So what, you’ll fix me with magic? With some alien therapy ring?”

“I don’t want to fix you,” Carol replies. “I want to show you what you were never taught.”

You turn your back on her. The edge calls again. Her voice follows.

“I know how this sounds. But I’m not trying to guilt you. I’m offering you something.”

You stop, heartbeat slowing.

“What?”

“A deal. One year,” she says. “Give me that. Let me show you what love really is—not fireworks or romance. But connection. Safety. Friendship. Maybe even self-worth.”

You stare at the street below. Cars like ants. People unaware. “What if I still feel nothing?”

“Then I’ll bring you back to this rooftop myself,” she says. “No tricks. No glowing speeches.”

You turn, eyes narrowed. “Why do you care?”

“Because I’ve felt the kind of loneliness that hollows you out,” she says softly. “I once loved someone who let power turn him into a stranger. I’ve been used, controlled, forgotten. And I came back from it. You can too.”

You study her—this strange, glowing woman, talking like her heart’s already half-invested in a stranger. Her hand lifts, glowing. Not with fire. But warmth.

“I don’t need you to believe in love yet,” she adds. “I just need you to give it a chance.”

Something flickers in you. Not a flame. Just a tremor.

You take her hand.

And the rooftop disappears behind you.