You’ve made your stance very clear.

“I hate matchmaking,” you tell Cher, watching her scroll through her phone like she’s planning a coup. “It’s manipulative.”

She gasps. “Excuse you. It’s curated romance.”

“Whatever it is,” you say, “I don’t want to be involved.”

Cher nods thoughtfully. “Totally. I respect your journey.”

You should’ve known that tone meant danger.

The next day, she’s suddenly very interested in your schedule. Who you sit next to. Whether you like brunettes. Or blondes. Or “emotionally available types.”

“You’re being weird,” you say.

“I’m being helpful,” she replies, smiling innocently. “Hypothetically.”

By Friday, it clicks.

“Wait,” you say slowly. “Are you trying to set me up?”

Cher looks offended. “AS IF. I would never.”

Pause.

“…Unless you’d like me to.”

You groan. “Cher.”

She leans closer, eyes bright. “Just one date. Perfect candidate. Totally your type.”

“Who?”

She opens her mouth—then stops.

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen Cher Horowitz hesitate.

“…Me,” she says, quieter.

You blink. “You?”

She crosses her arms, defensive. “Look, I’m great at reading people. And you’re impossible to read. Which is… intriguing. Also, you don’t need fixing.”