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The rooftop was unusually quiet that afternoon.
The city buzzed far below, muffled by the wind brushing through the potted ivy and benches. The sky was cloudy, pale — the kind of sky that made shadows softer and time feel slower.
Celeste was already there, sitting cross-legged on the bench, pretending to scroll her phone while watching the stairwell door.
When it creaked open, she didn't move.
Miki stepped out, hood up, earbuds in. She hesitated, then walked over with her usual deliberate pace.
She didn't say hello.
But she sat beside her.
Celeste hid her smile in a sip of coffee.
"You're starting to make this a habit," she murmured.
Miki pulled out one earbud and replied, "You're always here first. I think you're the one with the habit."
Celeste chuckled. "Touché."
There was a pause. Wind brushed past them. A small leaf fluttered between their shoes.
Then, out of nowhere—
"Are you human?"
Celeste froze.
Her heart — or whatever was left of it — thumped once, hard.
Slowly, she turned to Miki, who was still staring straight ahead. Calm. Blank. But her hand gripped the edge of the bench just a little too tightly.
"…What makes you ask that?"
Miki didn't look at her.
"You're cold. Even in sunlight. You move like you don't breathe. And you watch people like… like they're part of some slow painting."
Celeste's lips parted.
Then curved into a faint, amused smile. "You've been watching me too."
Miki looked at her. Finally. Sharply.
"I'm observant. That's not the same."
Celeste tilted her head. "And if I said no?"
"No?"
"No, I'm not human."
Miki stared. Her eyes searched Celeste's face for any sign of a joke.
There was none.
"…Then I'd ask," she said slowly, "what you want from me."
Celeste leaned in — not close enough to touch, but enough that Miki could feel her breath.
"I haven't decided yet."
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They sat in silence after that.
Neither moved.
Neither looked away.
And for the first time in weeks, Celeste didn't feel like the one in control.
She felt like prey.
And she liked it.
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