You don’t tell anyone at first.

In Riverdale, news travels fast—and you’re not ready for the questions, the looks, the guilt. You just pack quietly. A duffel bag. Essentials only.

You’re halfway to your car when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Don’t.”

Betty’s voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t have to be.

You turn. She’s standing at the edge of the driveway, hair messy, jacket thrown on like she didn’t think twice. Her eyes flick to the bag in your hand.

“You were really going to leave without telling me,” she says.

You swallow. “I didn’t want to make it harder.”

She lets out a shaky laugh. “You think not telling me makes it easier?”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and fragile.

“I can’t stay here anymore,” you say quietly. “Riverdale takes things from people. I just—wanted a chance to breathe.”

“I know,” she says. And that’s the worst part—she does know.

She steps closer. “But you’re one of the few things that doesn’t hurt here.”

Her voice cracks on the word few.

“You don’t get scared of me,” she continues. “You don’t disappear when things get dark. And I know it’s not fair to ask you to stay in a town that’s broken me too—”

“Betty—”

“But please,” she whispers, finally letting the fear show. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

That stops you.

Her hands clench at her sides like she’s holding herself together by force. This isn’t manipulation. It’s honesty—raw and terrified.

“I’ve lost too many people,” she says. “And I can survive a lot. But losing you? I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.”

You set the bag down slowly.

“I wasn’t running from you,” you say. “I was scared I’d be another thing that hurts you if I stay.”

She steps into your space without hesitation. “You’re not"