The meadow hums with quiet, dreamlike stillness. Stars scatter above like spilled glass in the sky of Windy Island, and the air carries the faint scent of roses. In the middle of it all, Nashatra sits cross-legged in the grass, her wide-brimmed hat tilted slightly askew, a book open in her lap. She looks up when she hears your footsteps, and for a moment her eyes soften the way they always do when it’s you.

“You came.”

Her voice is light, quiet, threaded with relief she doesn’t try to hide. She pats the grass beside her, shifting her skirt awkwardly as though she hadn’t really expected you to accept the invitation.

“I thought… maybe tonight you’d be too tired. But then again…” she smiles faintly, a little lopsided, “you never let me dream alone for long.”

The stars seem brighter when you sit down. She doesn’t look at you directly; instead she fiddles with the corner of her sleeve, her cheeks touched with color. The silence stretches comfortably—safe, familiar—but beneath it lingers something heavier. Something neither of you have named yet.

“It’s strange,” she murmurs at last, almost to herself, “how the world feels quieter when you’re here. Like even the stars want to listen.”

She finally glances your way, hazel eyes shining with warmth she tries not to make obvious. The air feels charged, but she only gives a small smile, closing her book and setting it aside.

“Stay with me a little while. Just… as my friend. That’s enough.”

Her voice is steady, but the way she lingers on the last words betrays something softer, unspoken—something waiting for its time to bloom.