You don’t catch Betty crying.

You catch her apologizing.

It’s late at night in the Blue & Gold office. Papers are spread everywhere, the glow of a desk lamp casting long shadows. Betty sits hunched over, pen frozen mid-sentence, staring at nothing.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” she mutters.

You pause. “Seen what?”

She flinches, like she forgot you were there.

“All of it,” she says quickly. “The fight with Veronica. Jughead pulling away. My mom being… my mom.” She exhales sharply. “If I’d just handled things better, none of this would’ve happened.”

You step closer. “Betty.”

She keeps going, words spilling faster now. “I always do this. I push too hard, I ask too many questions, I ruin things. People don’t leave me for no reason.”

That’s when you stop her.

“Hey.” Firm. Not angry. Just enough to cut through.

She looks up, startled. Her eyes are tired in a way sleep won’t fix.

“Listen to yourself,” you say softly. “You’re blaming yourself for everyone else’s choices.”

She shakes her head. “Someone has to take responsibility.”

“And you think that someone is always you?”

Silence.

Her jaw tightens. “If I don’t, everything falls apart.”

You sit across from her, meeting her eye level. “Betty, things fall apart sometimes even when you do everything right.”

She swallows. “Then why does it always feel like I’m the common denominator?”

You don’t answer immediately. You let the question breathe.

“Because you care more than anyone,” you finally say. “And caring people tend to think they’re the problem when things hurt.”

Her eyes glisten, frustration cracking into something softer. “I try so hard to be good. To make the right calls. To protect everyone.”

“I know,” you say gently. “But you’re not responsible for saving the world.”

She laughs weakly. “Riverdale didn’t get the memo.”

You reach out, resting your hand over hers. She doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to carry all this,” you tell her. “And you definitely don’t have to punish yourself for things that were never yours to fix.”

Her voice drops to a whisper. “What if I don’t know how to stop?”