Cher notices it before you do.

It starts small—people waving at you in the hallway. Someone saving you a seat. A girl you’ve never spoken to asking what lip gloss you use.

Cher squints at you across the quad. “Okay. Don’t panic,” she says, tapping her planner. “But why does everyone suddenly know your name?”

You shrug. “I helped a girl with her math homework?”

Cher stops walking. “You… what?”

By lunch, it’s undeniable. You sit down and three people immediately join your table. Someone asks your opinion on homecoming. Another compliments your outfit.

Cher watches in silence, chewing her gum like it personally offended her.

“I don’t get it,” she finally says. “You’re not even trying.”

“I’m just being nice,” you reply.

She gasps. “That’s illegal.”

Later, in her room, Cher paces dramatically. “I have spent years curating my image. Color-coordinated outfits. Strategic friendships. And you waltz in here with—” she gestures wildly “—vibes.”

You laugh. “I can stop if it bugs you.”

She freezes. “No. That would be tragic.”

She flops onto her bed, sighing. “It’s just… people like you because you’re real. No agenda. No plan.”

You sit beside her. “Is that bad?”

Cher looks at you, thoughtful now. “No. It’s… kinda refreshing.”

She smiles softly, then smirks. “But don’t get it twisted. I’m still teaching you how to walk into a room.”