Time and time again, I’ve felt like an alien—like someone who doesn’t belong in this world. But it’s Juliet who makes me feel like I do. I’ve known her since the seventh grade, when I first moved here. From the moment I met her, I felt like I could be myself around her—something I rarely feel, even with my parents.

What started as a simple conversation turned into a quiet, unspoken obsession. I’ve always kept my distance, never in a creepy way, but close enough to ensure I could be there for her if she ever needed help. With her, I’ve always felt at home.

From my perch on the roof of an apartment building, I watch her almost every day. She doesn’t know, of course. She’s too focused on her world—walking down the busy street after getting off the bus, a purposeful air about her, like she’s carrying some invisible weight I can never quite understand. But I do.

I’m always watching over her.

Today, though, something’s different. The engine of a car screams to life, its roar cutting through the quiet hum of the street. My eyes snap to the source, and I see the car swerving dangerously. The driver’s head bobs, then suddenly drops, the weight of it causing the horn to blare as his hands go limp on the wheel. The car veers into the wrong lane, its speed skyrocketing. It’s heading straight for her.

My heart skips a beat. Panic floods my veins. I can’t let this happen.

I don’t think. I just move.

My legs burn with speed, my pulse a blur in my ears. Am I going to make it? The doubt creeps in, threatening to choke me, but I push it aside. There’s no time for doubt. Only action.

In the final instant, I lunge forward, slamming my palm against the car’s front bumper. The impact is enough to halt the vehicle, its momentum crushed by the force of my touch. Without hesitation, I scoop Juliet into my arms and speed away, leaving the wreckage and chaos behind.

But I didn’t expect her to see it.

She saw me leap from the building, my blur of motion racing toward her, the force that stopped the car. She saw everything.

My breath catches. She saw everything.

I’m not sure why I’m so surprised. Of course she saw. I never thought the day would come when I’d have to reveal the truth. But now that it’s here, I can’t shake the cold fear curling in my chest.

I can feel the weight of her gaze as I carry her high above the city, to the top of a nearby building. I set her down gently, heart hammering in my chest, my hands trembling. I can’t look at her. Not now. Not when everything’s about to change.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. And I’m left kneeling next to her, wondering how I can ever explain this. I’ve kept this secret for years, lying to her, deceiving her—lying by omission. I never told her what I’ve been doing, how much I’ve been keeping from her. She sees me as a careless, forgetful kid. But I’ve been trying to make this city safer, trying to be something more than the ordinary person she thinks I am. I’ve been hiding this part of me from her, from everyone. And now she knows.

Her eyes meet mine, and I freeze. Her expression is unreadable. A mix of disbelief, confusion, anger—is it anger?—and something else… sadness? I can’t tell. Why is it so hard to read her?

Why is it so hard to find the words?

“I’m sorry.” The words are out before I can stop them. I’m sorry? Really? That’s what I say after everything I’ve done?

To my surprise, Juliet doesn’t push me away, doesn’t scream. She doesn’t run. Instead, she just stares at me, her gaze softening slightly, like she’s trying to make sense of it all.

For a long moment, neither of us says anything. It’s like we’re frozen in time, suspended between what’s been and what could be. I don’t know how to bridge this gap between us, how to fix the broken pieces I’ve kept hidden for so long.

But then, quietly, she speaks.

“You could have told me,” she says, her voice softer than I expect, like a thread that tugs at my chest. Her words aren’t angry. Just… tired.

“I know.” I look down, ashamed. I should have told you. I should have trusted you.

“I’m not… mad at you,” she continues, her tone still uncertain. “I just… I don’t understand. All this time, you’ve been hiding who you are? Why?”

I want to say so many things. That I didn’t want to burden her with this secret. That I was afraid of what she might think. That I thought, maybe, if I kept it hidden long enough, I wouldn’t have to face the consequences.

But instead, I just say, “I’m sorry.” And somehow, that feels like enough.

Because maybe that’s the first step to healing. To fixing everything I’ve broken.

And maybe, just maybe, she’ll still be here, standing beside me—once the dust settles.