A QUIET FIXATION

GLITTERS AND GRAVITY

RUTH'S POV:

People see me and assume I have it all together.

Perfect hair, loud laugh, cheerleading uniform, mayor’s daughter. It’s the full starter pack of a girl who’s supposed to be confident, untouchable, and probably annoying.

Spoiler alert: I’m all of the above.

But I’m also tired. Not the sleepy kind. The kind where your smile starts to hurt if you hold it too long.

That’s the thing about being the life of the party. You don’t get to leave early.

---

I wake up to my phone vibrating under my pillow. Three texts from Eric.

ERIC: you up?

ERIC: cheer practice still 9am?

ERIC: babe??

I stare at the messages for a few seconds before responding with a simple:

>Me: yeah. see you there.

He’s sweet. Safe. Predictable. The kind of boyfriend who always holds my bag, compliments my hair, and buys me the same chocolate bar every Tuesday from the vending machine.

I used to think that meant he really knew me.

Now I’m starting to wonder if he just memorized the surface.

---

Dad’s already at work when I come down for breakfast. The kitchen smells like too-strong coffee and political stress.

There’s a note on the fridge: “Don’t forget the charity gala next Friday. Be dazzling. Love, Dad.”

Dazzling. That’s his word for me. Not “smart.” Not “strong.” Dazzling. Like I’m a chandelier he gets to show off at public events.

Whatever. I make a smoothie, slap on mascara, and throw on my team hoodie. Then I head out.

---

At practice, Madison nearly drops Chloe during the lift again.

“Can we not kill someone today?” I snap, hands on hips.

Madison rolls her eyes. “Maybe if Chloe didn’t weigh like a dumbbell—”

“Maybe if you had upper body strength that matched your ego,” I shoot back.

The team laughs. Madison doesn’t.

We finish practice with sweat, bruises, and minimal blood. I call that a win.

Eric walks me to my car afterward, arm around my shoulder.

“You’re feisty today,” he says, kissing my cheek.

“Just holding the squad together with sarcasm and lip gloss,” I reply.

He smiles. But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Want to hang later?” he asks.

“I’ve got plans with Raven.”

His mouth twists. “You always have plans with Raven.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Just... wish you had room for me too, sometimes.”

I sigh. “I do. But she’s my best friend, Eric. Since we were, like, four. You knew that going in.”

He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t get it.

That’s the thing about dating someone who’s never really had to carry another person emotionally—you tell them you’re carrying someone and they ask why you don’t just set them down.

---

Raven and I meet at Bean & Barrel later. She’s off her shift, apron shoved into her tote bag, sleeves rolled up, dark hair in a messy bun.

She looks like someone who’s trying to be invisible but failing because she’s just... noticeable.

To me, at least.

She gets the same drink every time—iced mocha, extra syrup. I tease her about it. She pretends to be offended.

We sit by the window, like always. Our corner. Our space.

She talks about her little brothers wrecking the kitchen. About Caleb mixing ketchup and milk “for science.”

I laugh so hard I nearly spit out my drink.

And then, mid-sip, I notice it.

She’s quieter than usual. Not her normal quiet. Her thinking-too-much quiet.

I lean forward. “Okay. Spill. What’s crawling around in that beautiful brain of yours?”

She blinks. “Nothing. I’m good.”

Liar. I don’t push. But I file it away.

---

That night, I go home and flop onto my bed, fully dressed.

My room looks like the inside of a Pinterest board. Lights strung along the wall, makeup scattered on the desk, a corkboard full of Polaroids. Most of them are of me and Raven. Some with Eric.

But only a few of those feel real.

There’s a picture of Raven from middle school—grinning, hair flying, frosting on her cheek from my birthday cake.

I stare at it for a long time.

She’s changed.

Still her. Still quiet, still thoughtful, still gentle like a page in a book you don’t want to crease.

But something’s different lately.

It’s like she’s got a storm behind her eyes.

I just don’t know if I’m supposed to wait for the rain or bring an umbrella.

---

The next morning, Dad comes into my room without knocking. Mayor Privileges.

“Big day today,” he says, clapping his hands. “We’re visiting the expansion site. Might get press coverage.”

I groan and pull the blanket over my head.

He sits on the edge of the bed. “You know how important appearances are.”

“Yeah, I know. Smile, dazzle, don’t embarrass you.”

“Not embarrass yourself, honey. You’re a Hutchinson.”

I peek out from under the covers. “You ever wonder if I want to be more than just a Hutchinson?”

He blinks, surprised. “You’re one of the most admired girls in this town.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He doesn’t have an answer.

---

Later, I drive to the edge of town, where the new development is going up—condos, offices, whatever. It’s all just concrete and potential.

But as I stand there, wind tugging at my jacket, I can’t help but wonder:

What if all of this—all the mayor’s daughter, cheer captain, high school it-girl stuff—what if it’s not enough for me?

What if I want something else?

Or worse...

What if I already had it in Raven, and I’m watching her slip away, one quiet glance at a time?

---

There are parts of myself I only show to empty rooms.

Not because I’m fake. I’m not.

I just know some truths don’t land well in crowded places.

Like the truth that I still cry on my mom’s birthday. Every year. Even though she’s been gone since I was eight and I barely remember the sound of her voice.

Or the truth that sometimes I look around a room full of people—cheerleaders, friends, Eric—and still feel like the loneliest person there.

Or the truth that I’m terrified of being ordinary. Of being forgettable.

So yeah, I sparkle. I shine. I dazzle, like Dad says.

Because I’m scared of what happens if I don’t.

---

My room is full of pink light when I wake up. The morning sun filters through the sheer curtains like a mood board. It should feel peaceful. But I’m already wired.

School. Practice. Rehearsals for the stupid mayor’s charity gala. Smile, wave, flip your ponytail and make people believe everything’s perfect.

I dig through my closet for something “effortless but impressive.” It’s a delicate balance.

I settle on a cropped white hoodie, ripped jeans, and glittery sneakers. I pull my hair into a high ponytail that could legally be classified as a weapon.

Before I leave, I glance at my dresser. There’s a framed photo of me and Mom—me in a tutu, her crouched beside me, arms wrapped around my shoulders. Her eyes look like mine. Like they’re always about to say something important and never do.

I touch the glass lightly. “Wish you were here.”

Then I head to school.

---

Northside High smells like floor wax and teenage angst.

In the hallway, people greet me like I’m running for office. “Hey Ruth!” “Cute shoes!” “Are we still on for the fundraiser?”

I smile. Nod. Wink.

My crown is invisible, but they all see it.

I spot Eric by his locker, typing something on his phone. He sees me and lights up like a street lamp.

“Hey, you.”

He kisses my cheek. I let him.

“You look amazing,” he says, which I’m pretty sure he says every morning.

“You say that even when I look like I got hit by a tornado.”

“Yeah, but you’re like... a hot tornado.”

I snort. “Smooth.”

But something in his eyes is off today. Like he’s trying too hard to be present.

“You good?” I ask.

He hesitates. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

We both are.

---

In second period, I sit behind Raven in history. She’s doodling in the margins of her notebook again—tiny stars, eyes, vines. Always in black ink.

She doesn’t talk much in class.

But I swear, her silence says more than most people’s monologues.

I text her under the desk:

> You coming over after school? We need a movie night.

She replies almost immediately.

> Can’t. Double shift. Bakery and café.

I frown.

> Boo. Lame excuse. I have popcorn and blanket forts.

She doesn’t respond.

And I get it. I do.

But it still stings a little.

---

Lunch is a performance. Always has been.

We sit at the “popular table,” whatever that means. It’s a rotating cast of loud laughter and shallow conversations.

I play my part. I tell stories. I make people laugh. I smile like I mean it.

But when I glance across the cafeteria and see Raven sitting alone, earbuds in, head down...

I feel like the traitor in a war I didn’t choose.

---

After school, I skip the cheer meeting and walk home alone.

Dad’s still at city hall, probably yelling into a phone or shaking hands with someone who’s donating a parking lot.

The house feels too big when he’s gone. Too quiet.

I kick off my shoes, flop onto the couch, and stare at the ceiling.

I don’t cry often. I can’t afford to. Crying ruins mascara and momentum.

But today, I let one tear fall. Just one. Then I wipe it away like it owed me money.

---

I grab my journal from the shelf. The real one. Not the fake one I show my therapist sometimes.

The real one is black leather, pages bent, secrets bleeding through ink.

I write:

“Sometimes I think people love me more for the light I give off than for the shadow I hide in. And I wonder if I stopped shining... would anyone still look for me?”

---

At dinner, Dad finally gets home. Still in his tie, Bluetooth still hanging from his ear.

“Charity gala’s coming up,” he says between bites of roasted chicken. “Need you front and center. Talk to press. Smile for the camera.”

I nod. “Of course.”

He gives me a proud smile. “You’re good at this, you know. Representing us.”

Us.

As if I’m his campaign banner.

“What if I wanted to represent just me?” I ask softly.

He blinks, caught off guard. “You’re not making sense.”

“Never mind.”

---

Later that night, I call Raven. She answers on the second ring, her voice tired.

“Hey.”

“You sound like you’ve been emotionally mugged.”

“Double shift. My feet hate me.”

“I miss you.”

She’s quiet for a second. “I miss you too.”

“I mean it,” I say. “We haven’t just hung out in, like, a week. Just you and me. Blanket forts and dumb movies and complaining about boys.”

“I know,” she says. Her voice is soft. “It’s just been... a lot.”

I bite my lip. “Yeah. Same here.”

We don’t say much after that.

But sometimes the silence says enough.

---

Before bed, I text her one more time:

Let me be there for you, okay? You’ve carried me for years. Let me carry you too.

She doesn’t reply right away.

But when I wake up the next morning, I see it.

Just one word.

Okay.

---

There’s a version of me that lives in everyone’s head.

She’s confident. Loud. Always knows what to say. Hair perfect. Smile rehearsed. Heart untouchable.

I’m not sure I’ve ever actually been her.

But I’ve played the part so long, I don’t know how to stop.

---

It’s Friday morning, and my dad’s already pacing the kitchen in his dress shirt and city seal pin. There’s a press conference at noon and a ribbon-cutting for some new eco-friendly sidewalk project. I can’t keep up.

“Don’t forget to wear blue today,” he says without looking up from his phone. “Matches the campaign colors. Press will be there.”

I take a slow sip of orange juice and say nothing.

“Smile when they take pictures,” he adds. “And maybe stay close to Eric. That whole ‘young, in-love couple’ look plays well.”

I set the glass down. “Is there a checklist somewhere I missed? Maybe I can tattoo it on my wrist.”

He pauses. Finally looks up. “Ruth.”

“I’m serious. That way I don’t mess up next time.”

His jaw tightens. “We’ve talked about this. You’re an extension of this family. What you do matters.”

I meet his eyes. “What I feel matters too.”

He blinks. Doesn’t respond. Just goes back to scrolling.

That’s our thing. Silence covered in political gloss.

---

At school, I smile at everyone. Laugh at the right moments. Say all the things people expect me to say.

But my brain’s somewhere else.

Raven didn’t text me back last night. Not a big deal. Except that it is.

Because we don’t do that.

Not me and her.

We’ve been best friends since we were kids—before lip gloss and lockers and boys with crooked smiles.

She used to be the only person who could pull me out of one of my black-hole moods with just a look.

Now she won’t even meet my eyes in class.

And I hate it.

I hate that I don’t know why.

---

Eric catches up to me between fifth and sixth period.

“Hey babe,” he says, brushing a kiss against my temple.

“Hey.”

He senses something’s off, I can tell.

“Everything okay?”

I want to say: No. Everything is not okay. I feel like I’m cracking in twelve different directions and no one sees it but me.

Instead, I nod. “Just tired.”

That’s the universal lie.

He offers to walk me to class. I say yes. Not because I want to. Because it’s easier than saying no.

---

After school, we sit in his car in the parking lot.

He’s rambling about football and college applications and this guy on the team who might be stealing his cleats.

I nod in the right places, make the right jokes. But I feel like I’m on mute inside.

Finally, he says it.

“You’ve been kind of... distant lately.”

I stare at the dashboard. “I know.”

“Is it me?”

“No.”

Then quieter: “I don’t know.”

He reaches for my hand. His touch is warm. Familiar.

But familiar isn’t always enough.

“You’re still in this, right?” he asks, half-laughing. “Us?”

I pause.

I look at him—this boy who’s been so good to me. Who’s never raised his voice. Who buys me the same chocolate bar every Tuesday and holds my hand like it means something.

And I don’t know what to say.

So I lie.

“Yeah. Of course.”

He smiles, relieved.

And I hate myself a little for saying it.

---

That night, I drive out to the edge of town.

No destination. Just movement. Windows down. Music too loud. Head full of static.

I end up at the old lookout point—Hillridge. The place people come to make out or smoke or scream into the stars.

Tonight, it’s empty.

I park, climb onto the hood of my car, and stare at the sky.

No stars. Just clouds. Just me.

I pull out my journal. The real one. The one no one sees.

And I write:

> “I’m scared I’m becoming a version of myself I won’t recognize in five years.

I’m scared Raven is slipping away from me.

I’m scared Eric loves me for who I pretend to be.

And I’m scared that if I stop pretending, no one will stay.”

I let the pen fall to the seat beside me.

The wind is cool. Gentle. I close my eyes and breathe.

And for one second, I let myself not be Ruth Hutchinson, mayor’s daughter, cheer captain, walking spotlight.

I just exist.

That’s enough.

For now.

---

The next morning, I show up at Raven’s door.

No warning. No texts.

She answers in pajamas and a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes, apron string still tied from the bakery.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she replies.

I hold up a bag of sour gummies and two cans of peach tea. “I come bearing peace offerings.”

She hesitates. Then steps aside.

And maybe we don’t say everything right away. Maybe we just sit on her bed, cross-legged, sipping tea, half-laughing at nothing.

But I see it now.

The weight in her shoulders. The things she’s not saying. The storm behind her quiet.

And even if she won’t tell me yet…

I’ll wait.

Because that’s what best friends do.