Peter Pan

At eighteen, standing at five feet tall, I was fed up with my grandmother's stories about the flying man. When I leaned out to lock the window, I saw him sitting on the oak branch.
Under the lamppost, his goblin disguise fooled no one: he had fine wrinkles, calloused hands, and the gaze of someone who had been observing the world for centuries.
—Close it carefully— she said, her voice heavy with echoes. —It makes fairies cough.
"I'm eighteen and I'm busy with university," I snapped, crossing my arms. "So get down from my tree."
Peter opened his eyes, feigning angelic innocence.
—Eighteen? Numbers are boring! Come on, the second star awaits us!
"Spare me the trouble, Peter," I interrupted coldly. "You're over a hundred years old. You pretend to be a naive child because you're terrified of growing up and taking on responsibilities, but underneath that disguise there's just an old man running away from his age."
His theatrical smile froze. After a tense silence, he looked at my slight build and a cynical smirk crossed his face.
"Ah... that explains it," she murmured. "I thought you were just another kid. Wendy's great-granddaughters have quite a temper."
It slipped in through the window and fell with elegant lightness into my room.
—Are you coming or are you going to stay here analyzing my life? —he asked defiantly.
"I'm not going to an island full of children who are afraid to grow up," I replied, pointing to the door. "I have a life to build here."
Peter looked at my notes and let out a dry laugh, finally revealing his deep and tired loneliness.
"Perhaps you're right, little adult," she said, moving back to the windowsill. "Or perhaps you're just too cowardly to admit that the real world is scary. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."
And it vanished into the night.