Cher Horowitz does not fall first.

She calculates. She plans. She controls the narrative.

So the fact that she’s been thinking about you for the past three days straight is—frankly—rude.

“You’re distracted,” Dionne says, eyeing her over lunch. “Like, existentially.”

“I am not,” Cher replies, snapping her compact shut. “I just… forgot what I was saying.”

That never happens.

The problem is you.

You, who sit next to her in class and actually listen when she talks. You, who don’t treat her like a trophy or a joke. You, who smiled at her this morning and said, “You look happy today.”

Which is illegal, by the way.

Later, you walk her to her car, and Cher catches herself slowing down, just to keep the conversation going.

“So,” she says casually, “what are you doing this weekend?”

She immediately hates herself for asking.

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “Probably nothing exciting.”

“Oh,” Cher says too fast. “Same. I mean—not same, but—yeah.”

She laughs it off, but the second she gets into her Jeep, she groans loudly.

“Oh my god,” she mutters. “I like them.”

The realization hits like a bad outfit choice you can’t undo.

She starts noticing everything—how close you stand, how easy it is to talk to you, how she actually cares if you text back.

Cher Horowitz does not care.

Except she does.

When she sees you laughing with someone else, her stomach twists. When you don’t show up one morning, she’s weirdly worried. When Dionne casually asks, “So when are you gonna admit you’re into them?” Cher almost chokes.

“I am not,” she insists. “I just—appreciate them.”

Dionne raises an eyebrow. “That’s called feelings.”

Cher groans. “I hate feelings.”

But one afternoon, when you sit beside her on the steps after school, shoulder brushing hers, she doesn’t pull away.

Instead, she exhales.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say gently.

She looks at you, all confidence momentarily gone. “I didn’t plan this. And I don’t even like that it’s happening. But I think I fell for you.”