Chapter 3 — Jules’ Intervention

Claire

I stared at my phone, the screen still aglow with Matt’s text from the night before. “I need space. I’m not coming to prom.” The words replayed in my mind, relentless and cruel, each syllable cutting deeper than the last. My stomach churned, a dull, nauseating weight settling in my chest.

The blush pink gown hung on the back of my closet door, its delicate beading glinting faintly in the morning light. It had once been a promise of everything I wanted—a perfect night, a perfect memory. Now, it felt like a mocking reminder of how far I had fallen short.

I hadn’t slept. Instead, I’d spent the night tangled in a loop of heartbreak and self-recrimination. I replayed every moment Matt and I had shared in the past few weeks, searching for clues I might have missed. There had been signs—his distracted smiles, the way he’d trailed off mid-conversation. I had told myself it was just senior-year stress. I had convinced myself we were fine.

The charm bracelet on my wrist jingled softly as I fidgeted with it, the heart charm catching the light. My mom had added that charm last year to mark Matt and me celebrating one year together. At the time, it had felt so right, a tiny symbol of something solid and unshakable. Now, it felt like a weight, dragging me down with every glance.

A sharp knock on my bedroom door broke through my spiral.

“Claire! Open up!” Jules’ voice rang out, muffled but insistent.

I groaned and pressed my palms over my face. “Go away, Jules.”

“Not happening.” The doorknob jiggled, followed by a pause. “I swear, I’ll learn how to pick this lock.”

“You don’t know how to pick locks.”

“Oh, I absolutely do. It’s surprisingly easy with a bobby pin and spite.” Another pause. “But seriously, if you don’t open this door, I’ll make enough noise to get your mom’s attention. Do you want her coming up here to ask why you’re being so dramatic?”

I sighed and dragged myself to the door. My reflection in the vanity mirror caught my eye as I passed, and I winced. My makeup from yesterday was smeared, my eyes puffy and rimmed with red. I looked like the before picture in one of those “miracle” skincare ads.

When I cracked the door open, Jules shoved their way in, a whirlwind of color and energy. Their hand-painted clutch swung from their wrist, a kaleidoscope of swirled blues and yellows so bright it almost stung my eyes against the muted tones of my room.

“Wow,” Jules said, giving me an exaggerated once-over. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck. A very emotional truck.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, closing the door behind them.

Jules flopped onto my bed, folding their legs beneath them like they were settling in for a long chat. “Okay, so here’s the deal. I know you got dumped.”

I froze. “What?”

“Please. You didn’t text me back last night, which is not normal. Then there was Ryan’s cryptic tweet about ‘cowards who cancel plans,’ which—let’s be honest—could have been about anything, but I had a gut feeling. And now here you are, looking like… this.” They gestured vaguely at my disheveled state.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, my shoulders slumping. “It’s not just that he canceled. It’s… everything. I had this whole plan, Jules. Dinner, the photos, the perfect dress, the—”

“—the fairy tale?” Jules cut in, raising an eyebrow.

I nodded miserably. “And now it’s ruined. Everyone’s going to know. They’ll think I wasn’t good enough or that I’m—”

“Stop.” Jules held up a hand, their expression softening. “Claire, no one’s going to think that. And even if they do, so what? Screw them.”

I blinked at them, startled by their bluntness.

“Look,” they continued, leaning forward, their tone more serious now. “I get it, okay? You’ve worked hard to build this perfect version of yourself. Perfect grades. Perfect boyfriend. Perfect prom night. But here’s the thing—it’s not real. No one is perfect, not even you, Miss Claire Porter with her color-coded planner and alphabetized bookshelves.”

“Wow, thanks,” I said dryly, though my lips twitched slightly.

“You know what I mean.” Jules rolled their eyes, then softened again. “It’s okay to not have it all together. It’s okay to be messy. Actually, it’s kind of the best part of being alive.”

My hands twisted in my lap, and my gaze fell to the charm bracelet on my wrist. The heart charm spun lazily under my fingers, catching the light as it moved. “I just… I don’t know how to show up tonight. Everyone will stare. They’ll judge. And I don’t think I can handle that.”

“Then don’t handle it,” Jules said, standing up and crossing their arms. “Let them stare. Let them judge. But don’t let them stop you from showing up. Besides…” They opened their clutch and pulled out a glittery tube of lip gloss, wiggling it with a grin. “If all else fails, distract them with sparkles.”

Despite myself, I laughed. It was small and fleeting, but it was real. Jules grinned, triumphant.

“Come on,” they said, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet. “We’re doing this. You’re wearing that dress, and you’re going to look amazing. And if anyone has a problem with it, they’ll have to answer to me.”

I hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on me. The thought of walking into that room, facing everyone after everything that had happened, made my chest tighten. But then I looked at Jules—their earnest expression, their ridiculous clutch, their unwavering determination—and I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t in hours.

Hope.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “I’ll go.”

Jules whooped, throwing their arms around me in a quick hug. “That’s the spirit! Now, let’s fix your face because, girl, you’ve got ‘crying for twelve hours straight’ written all over you.”

As they started rummaging through my makeup bag, chattering excitedly about eyeliner techniques, my gaze drifted to the sketchbook on my desk, half-hidden under a pile of notebooks. I thought about the younger version of myself who had filled its pages—messy, imperfect, but so full of dreams.

Maybe Jules was right. Maybe it was time to stop trying to make everything perfect and just… be.