Everyone at Beverly Hills High thought they had Cher Horowitz figured out.

She was confident. Fashionable. Socially untouchable. Perfect.

Or at least… that’s how it looked.

You found her sitting alone on the front steps of school after seventh period—a place Cher never sat. She was hunched over slightly, her Prada backpack at her feet, staring at her phone like it had personally betrayed her.

“Cher?” you asked, approaching carefully. “You okay?”

She startled a little, snapping her phone shut. “Oh! Totally. Completely. Like… 100%.” But she wouldn’t meet your eyes. That was the first red flag.

You sat beside her. “Cher, you don’t have to lie to me.”

Cher sighed, shoulders slumping—an unfamiliar look on her usually poised frame.

“Ugh. Fine. I’m having… a moment.”

“A moment?”

“A crisis-esque moment,” she corrected dramatically.

You waited. With Cher, forcing it never worked. She talked when she was ready.

Finally, she whispered, “I got my report card.”

You blinked. “Okay…?”

She handed it over, like it was radioactive. The grades were actually decent—mostly Bs, one A-, and one C+ in geometry.

“Cher, these aren’t bad.”

“They’re not Cher-level,” she whispered.

There it was.

Her voice cracked as she added, “Sometimes I feel like if I’m not perfect—like clothes, looks, social stuff, even school—then I’m nothing special. Just…” She swallowed hard. “Just average.”

You looked at her—really looked. The carefully coordinated outfit. The glossy hair. The endless confidence she usually radiated. And beneath it all… a girl terrified she wouldn’t be enough.

“Cher,” you said softly, “you don’t have to be perfect to matter.”

She hugged her knees, staring at the ground. “But being average scares me. Like, what if without all the clothes and the reputation and the… extra stuff, I’m just another person in the hallway? What if nobody notices me?”

It hurt hearing it. Because Cher wasn’t scared of failing—she was scared of disappearing.

You put an arm around her shoulders gently. “Cher, people don’t love you because you’re perfect. They love you because you’re you. You’re kind. You’re funny. You care about people more than you admit. And you light up every room you walk into—grades or no grades.”

Cher’s eyes shimmered, though she blinked fast, not letting anything fall. “Tears would, like, ruin everything,” she muttered.

But she leaned into you just a little.

“Do you really think I’m enough without all the perfection stuff?” she asked quietly.

“I know you are,” you answered.

Cher breathed out shakily—a mix of relief and fear leaving her at once.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Then maybe… maybe I can try not being perfect all the time. Like… 80% perfection? That’s still stylish.”

You laughed. “Cher, perfection isn’t the goal. Being real is.”

She nudged you gently. “Ugh. Fine. But if I’m going to be average, I want to be like… the cutest average person ever.”