You’d known Blair Waldorf for years — the queen of the Upper East Side, with her perfectly crafted headbands and sharper-than-diamonds wit. You’d seen her conquer every social battlefield and wield power like it was an art form. And now, after all this time, things between you had shifted — a fragile, thrilling line crossed, turning friendship into something far more complicated.

But nothing had prepared you for walking into your penthouse that evening and finding her there, curled up on your bed, tears silently tracing the contours of her flawless face. Blair Waldorf, your Blair, broken and vulnerable in a way you’d never imagined.

You hadn’t expected her to show up like this. You hadn’t expected her to cry.

And yet, here she was. Pretty when she cried — but more than that, real. Raw. And desperately needing you.

You stood frozen for a moment, the soft click of the door behind you swallowed by the sudden weight of the scene before you. Blair’s chest rose and fell unevenly, her usual armor stripped away, leaving only a fragile girl tangled in her own pain.

“Blair…” Your voice was barely more than a whisper, unsure if you should move closer or let her be.

Her eyes flickered up, glossy and wide, searching your face for some kind of lifeline. “I don't know what to do,” she said, her voice cracking, the words foreign coming from someone who always held the world at arm’s length.

You crossed the room in a few quick steps and sat beside her on the bed. Carefully, you reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her damp cheek. “You don’t have to hide from me,” you said, voice steady, grounding.

Blair swallowed hard, biting her lip as she blinked back more tears. “Sometimes… I’m not the girl everyone thinks I am. Sometimes, I’m just… tired.”

And in that moment, everything between you shifted again — the line between friend and more blurred in the quiet understanding that sometimes, even queens need someone to hold them when the crown feels too heavy.