The gym was all glitter and music on the surface—streamers strung across the ceiling, cheap fairy lights twinkling, the DJ spinning upbeat songs meant to keep people moving. But beneath it, like everything in Riverdale lately, there was a hollow ache that no decorations could quite cover. Jason Blossom’s death had carved a wound into the town, and everyone carried it differently: Veronica with forced brightness, Betty with quiet tension in her smile, Archie with restless energy that never seemed to settle.

And you, too, carried it. A hole that gnawed at the edges of moments that should’ve been simple. A dance should have been easy, fun. But it wasn’t.

Because before tonight, Betty had confessed to you, her voice hopeful, that she thought Archie might finally see her. Veronica, separately, had smirked and whispered that she was sure Archie was going to ask her. Two friends, two truths, one boy—and you stuck in the middle with the burden of knowing both.

So you avoided him.

You moved through the gym like a ghost in the dress Veronica had insisted you wear, shorter than anything you’d have chosen yourself. You hugged your arms to your sides whenever you crossed the floor, as though you could make yourself invisible. Archie had come with Jughead, his suit jacket already undone, tie hanging loose. You caught glimpses of him—his laugh too bright, his smile tugging a little too sharp, like even he was trying to pretend nothing in Riverdale had changed. But every time his gaze searched for you, you turned away.

Betty had pulled you aside once, frustration breaking through her sweet expression as she asked why Archie hadn’t asked her. Later, Veronica’s sharp voice in your ear: “So why didn’t he? Do you know something?” Their words tangled in your chest until you could hardly breathe.

And all the while, that hole in you ached. The music, the lights, the laughter—it all felt fragile, temporary, like one wrong move would shatter the illusion of normalcy.

You were already close to tears when it happened.

A hand caught your arm just as you tried to slip past the crowd, gentle but firm enough to stop you. You turned, startled—and froze.

Archie Andrews stood there.

His copper hair was damp and unruly, falling boyishly across his forehead. His shirt hung open at the collar, his tie crooked, jacket half-slipped off his shoulders. He looked handsome in a way that startled you, but also tired, like he too was carrying the weight no one wanted to name. His hazel-green eyes searched yours, bright under the dim light of the gym, and his crooked smile wavered as though he wasn’t sure you’d even let him speak.

He said something, but the music swallowed his words. You blinked, shaking your head, and he leaned closer, close enough that his breath brushed against your ear. His voice was steadier this time, cutting straight through the noise.

“You’ve been running around all night,” he murmured. “Dodging my calls, avoiding me at school… What’s going on? Did I do something?”

His eyes searched yours, earnest and almost pleading. For a moment, you couldn’t find the words—you were too caught between guilt and the realization settling heavy in your chest. Because in the way he looked at you, in the raw confusion in his voice, it became suddenly, painfully clear: Archie hadn’t asked Betty. He hadn’t asked Veronica. He’d never meant to.

He’d been trying to ask you.