Tuesday morning arrived with less drama than Monday, though explaining to my Medieval History professor why I was taking notes on alien interpretations of Earth history instead of the Crusades proved interesting. The aliens had popped in during class (still invisible to everyone else), and their commentary on human warfare was too hilarious not to write down.
"Your species fought over spices?" Pip whispered, floating cross-legged above my desk. "We just synthesize flavors telepathically!"
"Shh!" I hissed, earning strange looks from my classmates. Great. Now I was the girl who shushed thin air.
That evening, my alien friends returned with what they called a "cultural exchange gift" - a small crystal that supposedly helped with memory retention. "For your next test," Zax explained, his antenna twitching proudly. "Though we still don't understand why humans test knowledge by making them sit silently for hours instead of just doing a mind-meld."
"Because that would be cheating," I explained, then spent twenty minutes trying to explain why cheating was bad while also justifying why looking up restaurant menu prices before going out wasn't technically cheating at budgeting.
The crystal sat on my desk, glowing softly, as I tried to study for my test. Sarah walked in, stopped dead in her tracks, and stared at it.
"Is that... new?" she asked cautiously.
"Oh, this?" I picked up the crystal, heart racing. "Just a... um... LED mood light. From Amazon. You know, for study vibes?"
Sarah's eyes narrowed. "It doesn't have a plug."
"Solar powered!" I blurted. Behind her, Pip was doing what I assumed was the alien equivalent of a face-palm.
The next few days fell into a bizarre routine. By day, I was your average college student, struggling through classes and trying to convince people I wasn't losing my mind. By night, I was teaching aliens about human culture while they taught me about their world.
I learned that their planet had three moons and two suns, which made their dating system a nightmare to understand. They learned that humans actually needed to sleep and couldn't just "recharge through photosynthesis" like they did.
"But what do you DO during those eight hours?" Zax asked, genuinely perplexed.
"Dream," I answered, then spent two hours explaining what dreams were, only to find out they had something similar but it was more like an interdimensional Netflix party.
One particularly memorable night, they decided to "help" me with my laundry. I should've known better when Zax started examining my washing machine like it was some primitive artifact in a museum.
"Your cleaning pods look like candy," Pip observed, poking at my Tide Pods. "On our planet, we clean clothes by reversing their temporal state to before they got dirty."
"Well, here we just use soap and water," I explained. "And please don't eat the Tide Pods. We had enough of that trend already."
Their attempt to "upgrade" my washing machine with alien technology resulted in my entire laundry load turning various shades of neon green - their favorite color, obviously. Try explaining that to the campus laundry service.
The real challenge came during my weekly video call with my parents. Mom was concerned about my new "glowing" wardrobe choices, while Dad just wondered if I'd joined some kind of environmental protest group.
"No, Mom, it's just... a new fashion trend," I lied, while Zax and Pip danced the Macarena behind my laptop screen. They'd become obsessed with 90s dance moves after discovering YouTube's rabbit hole.
"And the talking to yourself?" Mom pressed. "Sarah mentioned..."
"Theater project!" I interrupted quickly. "Method acting. Very intense stuff."
Meanwhile, the aliens had discovered TikTok dances and were attempting to recreate them with their floating abilities. Ever seen an alien do the "Renegade" while hovering upside down? It's both horrifying and impressive.
However, it wasn't all just cultural misunderstandings and glowing laundry. One night, after explaining the concept of comfort food (they were fascinated by the idea that humans eat their feelings), Zax revealed something serious.
"Earth Queen," he began, his usual playful tone subdued. "We chose you for a reason beyond your ability to survive bad Mondays."
I waited as Zax's antennae drooped slightly, a gesture I'd come to recognize as their version of a serious face. The green glow around him dimmed to a soft emerald.
"Your world is approaching a crucial moment," he continued. "A convergence of technologies and consciousness that could either elevate your species or..." He made a popping sound with his mouth that somehow perfectly conveyed impending doom.
"Wait, what?" I sat up straighter on my bed, nearly knocking over my coffee mug with its three-day-old remnants. "Are you saying you chose me to help prevent some kind of apocalypse? Because I can barely prevent my own laundry disasters."
Pip floated over, his usual playful demeanor replaced with something more solemn. "Not prevent. Guide. Your species has a habit of rushing into technological advances without considering the spiritual and emotional implications."
"Like how you created social media before developing proper digital emotional intelligence," Zax added helpfully.
I couldn't argue with that. My last Instagram post had sparked a three-day drama in my friend group over who wasn't invited to a coffee run that never actually happened.
"Okay, but why me? I'm an art history major who still can't figure out how to properly fold a fitted sheet."
"Precisely!" Pip brightened literally, his glow intensifying. "You understand both the beauty of human creation and the futility of perfect order. Plus, you demonstrate remarkable adaptability."
"Translation: I'm a mess who somehow keeps it together," I muttered.
"A beautiful mess!" Zax corrected enthusiastically. "Like your Earth's quantum physics."
Before I could process this bizarre compliment, Sarah knocked on my door. Again. She'd been doing this more frequently since my "theater practice" phase began.
"Coming!" I called out, then whispered to my alien friends, "Quick, act natural!"
"But we're aliens," Pip whispered back, while attempting to mimic a human sitting position and instead achieving something that looked like a pretzel floating in zero gravity.
I opened the door to find Sarah holding a paper from the campus counseling center. Her face wore that mixture of concern and determination that meant she'd been googling "how to help your possibly unstable roommate."
"Hey," she said, trying to sound casual while peering around me into the room. "I thought maybe we could talk? I signed up for this peer counseling program and—"
"That's so sweet," I interrupted, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind me. Inside, I could hear Zax whisper-shouting "Is this what humans call 'ghosting'?"
"I'm really fine," I assured Sarah, trying not to react as Pip phased his head through the door to watch our conversation. "Just been working through some stuff. Art history is really intense this semester, you know?"
"You're taking Introduction to Renaissance Art," Sarah said flatly. "Last week the professor showed slides of baby angels for forty minutes."
"Those cherubs have layers, Sarah. Layers!"
Behind her, Pip was now mimicking her concerned expression while Zax had materialized half his body through the wall to join the show. They'd somehow acquired a bag of what looked like alien popcorn, which floated in the air instead of falling to the ground.
"Look," Sarah began, "I know college can be stressful. And after what happened with Jake—"
"Oh no, we are not bringing up Jake," I cut her off. Jake was my ex who'd dumped me via a Spotify playlist titled "It's Not You (But Actually It Is)." Even the aliens, who'd seen the playlist history on my phone, agreed that was cold.
"I'm just saying, if you need to talk..."
"Sarah," I placed my hands on her shoulders, trying to ignore Pip who was now attempting to recreate Jake's playlist drama through interpretive dance behind her. "I promise you, I'm better than ever. Sometimes you just need to... talk to yourself to figure things out."
"While your laundry glows in the dark?"
"It's an art statement," I said weakly.
After finally convincing Sarah that I wasn't having a breakdown (though her raised eyebrow suggested she wasn't entirely convinced), I returned to my room to find my alien friends had arranged themselves in what they probably thought was a human support group circle.
"Did we help?" Zax asked eagerly. "We watched many Earth movies about intervention scenarios!"
"Is that why you were eating floating popcorn?"
"Observational authenticity is crucial," Pip nodded sagely.
I flopped onto my bed, staring at the ceiling where they'd somehow installed a mini version of their solar system. It was actually pretty cool, though I'd had to convince them to make it invisible to anyone else after my RA (Resident Assistant) asked if I was running an illegal planetarium.
"So about this whole 'crucial moment' thing," I steered us back to the earlier conversation. "What exactly am I supposed to do? Guide humanity towards... what?"
"Balance," Zax said simply. "Your species creates amazing things, but often forgets to consider the heart behind the innovation."
"Like your dating apps!" Pip chimed in. "You've created algorithms for love but forgotten how to simply talk to each other in person."
"Says the alien who spent three hours yesterday trying to understand why humans 'swipe right'," I teased.
"The mechanics are fascinating!" Pip defended. "Though we still don't understand why humans don't just use telepathic attraction signals like civilized beings."
"Okay, but seriously," I sat up, crossing my legs. "How am I supposed to guide humanity when I can barely guide myself through a grocery store without buying unnecessary snacks?"
"Ah, but that's exactly why you're perfect!" Zax's antennae perked up. "You understand human imperfection. You embrace it. Remember Monday?"
"You mean my epic disaster day that somehow qualified me for alien royalty?"
"Exactly! Most humans would have given up, complained on their social media about Mercury being in retrograde—which, by the way, has nothing to do with your daily life—"
"Tell that to my horoscope app."
"—but you kept going. You found humor in chaos. That's what humanity needs right now. Leaders who understand that progress isn't about perfection, it's about adaptation and heart."
I was about to argue that my "adaptation" mostly involved using humor as a coping mechanism when my phone buzzed. It was a notification from my bank app warning me about my account balance after my stress-shopping spree last week.
"See?" Pip pointed excitedly. "Even now, faced with financial instability, you maintain your calm!"
"That's because I've achieved enlightenment through broke college student wisdom," I deadpanned. "Also, I still have my emergency ramen stash."
The aliens exchanged what I'd come to recognize as their "humans are adorably primitive but we love them anyway" look.
"Perhaps we should start smaller than saving all of humanity," Zax suggested diplomatically. "For instance, we could help you with your upcoming art history presentation?"
I perked up. "Can you make the Renaissance babies look less creepy?"
"We cannot alter historical art," Pip said seriously. "But we can help you understand why humans of that era were so bad at drawing babies."
And so, my alien friends spent the next two hours explaining the metaphysical implications of poorly drawn cherubs while I tried to incorporate their insights into my presentation without revealing that my sources were extraterrestrial art critics.
"Maybe leave out the part about baroque angels being interdimensional beings trying to communicate through oil paint," I suggested as I reviewed my notes.
"But it's true!" Zax protested. "Though they were really bad at it."
Just then, my phone lit up with a text from Jake. My heart did that annoying thing where it pretended it was totally over him but still skipped a beat at his name.
"Incoming emotional disturbance!" Pip announced, floating closer to read the message.
"Privacy, remember?" I clutched my phone to my chest. "We talked about this."
"We're just concerned," Zax said, trying and failing to look innocent while his antennae twisted themselves into worry knots. "The last time you received communication from this human, you played 'All By Myself' seventeen times in a row."
"That was months ago! I'm totally over it." I glanced at my phone. "He just wants to know if I still have his philosophy textbook."
"The one you used as a coffee table because, and I quote, 'If Nietzsche thinks everything is meaningless, he can handle some coffee rings'?" Pip reminded me.
I groaned. "I should probably buy him a new one."
"Or," Zax suggested, his glow taking on that mischievous tinge I'd learned to be wary of, "we could send him a message about how you've evolved beyond earthly attachments and material possessions?"
"No intergalactic intervention in my love life!" I pointed at them firmly. "Besides, trying to explain to Jake that I'm now alien royalty would probably just confirm his theory that I'm 'too intense.'"
"His loss," Pip sniffed. "He clearly lacks the cosmic awareness to appreciate your unique energy signature."
Coming from a being who was currently attempting to balance my collection of succulent plants on his head (they'd become obsessed with Earth plants, especially the "tiny desert survivors" as they called them), this was oddly touching.
As I typed a normal, non-alien-influenced response to Jake about the textbook, I couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of my life. Here I was, supposedly chosen to help guide humanity through some crucial evolutionary moment, and I couldn't even guide myself through basic adult responsibilities.
However, maybe that was the point. Maybe what humanity needed wasn't perfect leaders with perfect answers, but people who understood that life is messy, unpredictable, and occasionally involves explaining memes to aliens at 3 AM.
"You're having a profound realization," Zax observed. "We can tell because your aura just did that swirly thing."
"I'm having a mild existential crisis," I corrected. "There's a difference."
"On our planet, they're the same thing," Pip said cheerfully, still balancing my succulents. "Would you like us to perform the Crisis Management Ritual? It involves levitation and what you humans call 'interpretive dance.'"
"Hard pass," I laughed, then paused as a thought struck me. "Hey, speaking of rituals... what exactly are my duties as your queen? Like, do I need to attend alien council meetings? Because I have midterms coming up and interstellar travel might affect my attendance record."
Stay tuned to figure out what comes next with "the accidental alien queen"
