It’s official.

The school election posters go up overnight—and Cher freezes in the hallway.

Your face is on one of them.

She reads it twice. YOU FOR STUDENT BODY PRESIDENT.

“As if,” she mutters… and then spots you across the quad, talking to a group of students like you didn’t just declare war.

Later, she corners you by the lockers. “Okay, I don’t know if you’re aware, but I’m running.”

You blink. “I know.”

“And you still decided to run?”

“Yeah.”

Cher folds her arms. “Wow. Bold. Slightly rude.”

Campaign week is chaos. Her posters are glossy and color-coded. Yours are handwritten, earnest, everywhere.

People start choosing sides.

At lunch, she watches you listen—really listen—to complaints about cafeteria food, dress code rules, unfair grading. You don’t promise miracles. You promise effort.

It annoys her.

During the debate, Cher is dazzling. Confident. Funny. You’re calm. Grounded. Honest.

The crowd is split.

Afterward, you find her behind the gym, pacing.

“This is ridiculous,” she says. “Why is this bothering me so much?”

“Because you care,” you reply. “Not just about winning.”

She looks at you, something soft breaking through the competitive spark. “You’re not supposed to be this hard to run against.”

You smile. “Neither are you.”

On election day, the results are close.

Too close.

When it’s over—no matter who wins—you’re standing side by side.

Cher exhales. “Okay. Truce?”

You nod. “Truce.”

She smirks. “Next time we’re on the same team.”