Everyone thinks Cher Horowitz is easy to figure out.

Perfect hair. Perfect outfits. Perfect confidence. Perfect plan for everyone else’s life. She says “as if” and everyone laughs. She smiles and people assume she’s fine.

But you’ve always noticed the part of Cher no one else pays attention to.

Like now—she’s standing in her giant walk-in closet, supposedly picking an outfit for school, but she’s staring through her clothes instead of at them.

Her fingers trace the sleeve of a yellow blazer like she’s miles away.

“You okay?” you ask.

Cher startles a little. “Oh! Totally. Absolutely. I’m just—” She gestures vaguely. “Reassessing my… uh… outerwear choices?”

You raise an eyebrow.

She folds instantly.

“Fine. I’m stressing. Majorly.”

You sit on the edge of her bed, waiting—not pushing, just… available. Cher notices. She always does.

She flops down beside you with a dramatic sigh worthy of an Oscar. But her voice is softer than usual.

“Everyone thinks I’m just this… vapid Barbie doll with a shopping addiction,” she says. “And like, okay, yes, I love clothes. I love cute clothes. But that’s not all I am.”

Her tone dips into something she doesn’t let people hear.

“You know that. You see that. It’s weird.”

You shrug. “It’s not weird. I just pay attention.”

Cher stares at you for a long moment—really stares, not the breezy, distracted way she looks at most people.

“You always notice when I’m actually upset,” she murmurs. “You don’t just tell me I’m being dramatic or say ‘Cher, relax’ or ‘Cher, you’re overthinking it.’”

“You usually are overthinking,” you tease.

She nudges your shoulder, but her smile is small and real.

“Yeah, but you don’t make me feel stupid for it. You actually… listen.”

Another pause.

“I don’t really get that a lot.”

You’ve always known that. Beneath her bright energy and confidence, Cher feels things intensely—she just doesn’t trust many people with the quieter parts.

She fiddles with a bracelet, eyes dropping.

“Sometimes,” she says softly, “I feel like people only see the version of me that makes their life easier. Like I’m not allowed to have off days or be confused or mess up. And when I do, everyone looks at me like I broke character.”

You tilt your head. “And what do I do?”

She meets your eyes.

“You see me. The real me. Even when I don’t say anything.”