You and Cher Horowitz used to be inseparable. Not clones of each other, not identical in personality, but balanced—your honesty grounding her dramatic flair, her optimism lifting your rough days.
Which is why the fight feels so unreal.
It happens after school, voices echoing in the courtyard as the sun dips low and golden over Beverly Hills Academy.
Cher tosses her hair, frustrated. “I’m trying to help you. Why can’t you just trust me?”
“Because you didn’t listen,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “You decided what was best for me without even asking what I wanted.”
Cher blinks, caught off guard. She opens her mouth, closes it, then crosses her arms as if defending herself from a cold breeze. “I was just looking out for you. That’s what friends do.”
“No. Friends ask,” you say quietly. “They don’t control.”
Something shifts in her expression—hurt, confusion, maybe even fear—but she turns away before you can read it.
“Well,” she says, voice suddenly flat, “if that’s how you feel… maybe I shouldn’t bother trying to help at all.”
You don’t answer. You just walk away.
The Silence Between You
For days, Cher avoids you. Not in a cold way—more in a lost way. She sits in the cafeteria with Dionne but keeps glancing at your empty spot. She fumbles conversations. She gets quiet in class.
Even her outfits look slightly less coordinated.
Dionne corners you at your locker. “Okay, spill. Cher is a mess. She spent twenty minutes reorganizing her lip glosses alphabetically. Alphabetically.”
You sigh. “We argued. I just… I need Cher to treat me like a friend, not a makeover project.”
Dionne nods slowly. “You know she only does that when she cares, right? But she also needs to hear you.”
You know she’s right. Cher’s heart is in the right place; it’s just her execution that can be… extra.
Cher’s Self-Reflection
That afternoon, you find Cher sitting alone by the fountain—no shopping bags, no crowd, just her. She looks small in a way you’ve never seen.
When you approach, she doesn’t look up. “I guess I screwed up,” she whispers.
You sit beside her. “We both got heated.”
“No,” she says, finally meeting your eyes. “I didn’t hear you. I was so busy planning and fixing and organizing your life that I forgot to ask how you felt.” She takes a shaky breath. “I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t trying. But I ended up being pushy instead of helpful.”
Your chest softens. Cher is rarely vulnerable—rarely lets her insecurities surface like this.
“I don’t need you to fix everything,” you say gently. “I just need you to be here.”
Cher nods, brushing away a tear before it can fall. “I can do that. I want to do that. And next time I forget, just… remind me? Preferably before yelling in public? It’s not cute.”
You laugh, and Cher brightens instantly, like sunshine breaking through clouds.
“So… we’re okay?” she asks, voice hopeful.
“You’re Cher,” you say with a smile. “We’ll always find our way back.”
Cher exhales in relief and links her arm through yours—lightly, respectfully this time. “No more clueless moments. Or… fewer. I can’t promise miracles.”
“Just promise honesty.”
“Done,” she says, squeezing your arm. “And I promise to actually listen. Even if it means letting you wear outfits that totally clash.”