Betty doesn’t come to you when she’s okay.

She comes when she can’t sleep. When her hands won’t stop shaking. When the walls feel too close and her thoughts get too loud.

It starts subtly.

She stops answering texts during the day. At school, she smiles like nothing’s wrong—perfect grades, perfect posture, perfect Betty Cooper.

But at night?

At night, your phone lights up.

Betty: Can I come over? Betty: Please don’t ask why.

You don’t.

She shows up at your door with red eyes and a hoodie pulled tight around herself. She doesn’t look at you when you let her in. She just walks straight to your room and sits on the floor, back against the bed.

“I don’t want you to fix anything,” she says quickly. “I just… need you here.”

So you sit with her.

Some nights she talks—about her mother’s voice in her head, about expectations crushing her chest, about how she feels like there’s something wrong inside her that she can’t outrun.

Other nights she says nothing at all.

She just leans into you, fingers clutching your sleeve like you’re the only solid thing in the room.

“You’re the only one who sees this version of me,” she whispers once, voice breaking. “Everyone else gets the good Betty.”

You brush her hair back gently. “I don’t need the good one.”

She laughs weakly. “You should.”