The mall is basically empty.

The fountains are off, the food court lights are half-dimmed, and the only people still wandering around are you and Cher Horowitz—heels in her hand, hair a little messy from a long day, but still somehow looking like she wandered off a magazine cover.

“You know,” she says, walking beside you in her stocking feet, “I don’t think malls should close. Like, ever. It’s tragic. A public service loss.”

You laugh. Cher beams—then her smile flickers, softens.

“So… thanks for staying,” she adds quietly. “With me.”

That’s new. Cher doesn’t usually do “quiet.”

You sit together on the edge of a fountain that’s stopped bubbling for the night. Cher sets her heels beside her and exhales, her shoulders dropping in a way they never do during daylight hours.

“Everyone thinks I’m just…” She waves a hand in a vague circle. “…me.”

“Cher?” you offer.

“No!” she says, swatting your arm lightly. “Like—ugh, I don’t know. This… predictable, fashion-obsessed, super-cheerful girl with no flaws.”

She hesitates.

“And okay, yeah, I am cheerful and fashion-obsessed. But still.”

Her voice gets smaller.

“It’s just… sometimes it feels like everyone decided who I am before I even got to.”

The mall hums with the low rumble of shutting-down electricity. You can hear the echo of your own footsteps if you shift.

Cher stares at her reflection in the fountain’s still water, chewing her lip.

“You ever feel like you’re performing? Like, not on purpose, but because people expect it?”

You do. And you tell her that.

Cher’s eyes flick to you—bright, grateful, real.

“Well,” she sighs, “that makes me feel totally less alone.”