Popularity at Bronson Alcott High isn’t a ladder. It’s a currency.

And Cher Horowitz has always had the highest balance.

Until today.

The courtyard is busy—designer bags, cliques clustering like they’re posing for magazine covers, and whispers that start faster than rumors end. You and Cher are walking together when you hear it:

A few students behind you snicker.

“She’s hanging out with them now?” “Cher could literally choose anyone.” “Maybe she’s doing charity work.”

Cher stops mid-step.

The old Cher—the version everyone thinks they know—would’ve laughed it off, tossed her hair, and floated toward whichever group boosted her social standing the most.

But she doesn’t move. She just stands there, shoulders stiff.

You say nothing. You’d never make her choose.

Cher turns to you, face calm but eyes conflicted.

“You heard that?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you say. “But it’s fine. You don’t need to explain anything.”

She frowns, like your answer is somehow worse.

“No. You don’t get it.” Her voice drops. “I do need to explain. Because you matter to me. And they… don’t get to judge that.”

Before you can respond, Amber and her group sashay over, perfectly timed.

“Cher,” Amber says, faux-sweet. “We’re going to the quad. Come with us? Unless you’re busy with your… project.”

Cher raises an eyebrow. “Project?”

Amber smiles like she’s being generous. “Yeah, you know. Them.” She flicks her eyes toward you.

Cher inhales once, slow. And everything hits a crossroads.