Cher Horowitz is not used to being challenged.

People agree with her. People laugh. People nod and move on.

You don’t.

“You’re doing it again,” you say, arms crossed, watching her pace her bedroom dramatically.

She stops. “Doing what again?”

“Pretending you don’t care,” you reply. “When you obviously do.”

Cher scoffs. “I care about lots of things.”

“Not that,” you say gently. “About why.”

She turns away, fiddling with her closet door. “You don’t know everything.”

“No,” you admit. “But I know when you’re lying to yourself.”

That gets her attention.

She looks at you—really looks at you now. “Everyone else just tells me I’m right.”

“Yeah,” you say. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Silence stretches. Uncomfortable. Honest.

“You make it sound like I’m fake,” she says quietly.

“You’re not,” you reply immediately. “You’re scared. And you cover it with confidence because it works.”

Her breath catches, just slightly.

“I don’t like disappointing people,” she admits. “And when I mess up, it’s easier to act like it doesn’t matter.”

You soften. “But it does matter. To you.”

She sinks onto her bed, suddenly tired. “Why do you always see through me?”

You sit beside her. “Because I care enough to.”

She looks at you then—not defensive, not polished. Just Cher.

“I don’t want you to stop calling me out,” she says. “Even when I hate it.”