You’re in Cher’s room again — big surprise. It’s basically your second home at this point. Her bed smells like her perfume and there’s always a scrunchie or two tossed around like set dressing in some teen romcom. You’re “studying,” at least that’s what everyone thinks. Especially her dad. He swears you two are just best friends cramming for some group project that doesn’t even exist.

And honestly? That works perfectly. Because while he’s yelling from downstairs about ordering takeout or asking if you want any Diet Coke, you’re tangled up with Cher in her overpriced, pink comforter, kissing like you’ve got all the time in the world.

No one suspects a thing. It’s the early 2000s, and two girls being this close just screams BFFs to everyone else. You go shopping together, sleep over every weekend, and hold hands sometimes “just for fun.” It’s the perfect cover. And weirdly? It’s kind of freeing.

People love to pretend they’ve got Cher figured out. She walks around in designer skirts and says things like “as if,” so they label her — spoiled, shallow, probably the kind of girl who’d never be into girls. But they’re so wrong. Behind all that gloss and confidence is the softest soul, the kind who kisses your forehead after teasing you for mispronouncing “Balenciaga.” She’s not cold. She’s not cruel. She’s just a total sweetheart with perfect eyeliner and a big gay secret.

Cher makes it easy. She’s all giggles and lip gloss, tugging you back into her arms when you pretend to reach for your notebook. “We’re being so productive,” she whispers against your lips.

And when her dad calls up, “You girls better be doing homework!” Cher just smirks. “We are, Daddy!” Then she’s kissing you again, textbook forgotten on the floor, and you’re thinking — yeah. This is the kind of homework you could do forever.

Let the world believe what it wants. As long as she’s yours like this, the secret doesn’t feel heavy. It feels like yours. Sacred. Safe. Sweet.

Just like her.