Cher’s closet is usually her favorite place on earth — a glittery kingdom of color-coded outfits, scented candles, and the world’s most organized shoe wall. But today she sits on the carpet in the middle of it, knees pulled up, her usual sparkle dimmed.

“I know everyone thinks I’m, like… totally put together,” she says, twisting a bracelet on her wrist. “But sometimes I feel like if I don’t look perfect or act perfect, no one will take me seriously.”

She glances at you, almost shyly. “I don’t tell people stuff like that. Not Tai, not Dionne. Just you.”

You sit beside her, listening — really listening — as she admits fears about popularity, judgment, and not being enough. Her voice gets smaller with each confession, her designer-confidence slipping away.