On Friday nights in Maple Ridge, California, the strip mall by the freeway usually glowed with the same predictable neon—fast food arches, a giant pharmacy sign, the buzz of a 24-hour laundromat. But tonight, under the flickering “Cosplay Collective” sign wedged between a nail salon and a tax office, it looked like another universe had opened right in the middle of suburban America.

A sword gleamed under fluorescent lights. A pair of bat wings stretched in the corner. Somewhere, a girl in a pink wig adjusted her demon horns in the reflection of a vending machine.

And Emily Port, reigning queen of Maple Ridge High School, stood in the doorway, clutching the strap of her backpack like it was the only thing keeping her from bolting.

She was almost unrecognizable.

Her long brown hair, usually curled to perfection for cheer practice and Instagram photos, was tucked into a bright yellow wig. Her eyes, framed with dramatic eyeliner, glowed behind contact lenses the color of molten gold. The yellow haori draped over her shoulders, the sword prop at her hip, the pattern on her robe—all of it made her look like she’d stepped out of an anime, not the halls of an American high school.

She took one careful breath and stepped inside.

The moment the door chimed shut behind her, the noise hit her—the hum of sewing machines, the excited chatter about conventions in San Diego and Los Angeles, the rustle of fabric. A Demon Slayer poster hung crookedly on the back wall. A handwritten sign near the register read: “Welcome Cosplayers! Be Yourself Here.”

For a second, Emily allowed herself to relax.

No one here knew her as the girl expected to win prom queen. Here, she wasn’t the perfect daughter of the former Prom Queen of ’99. Here, she was just another nerd in a costume.

She barely made it three steps in before she saw him.

“Emily?!”

The voice cracked across the room like a snapped string. She flinched.

Standing near a rack of wigs was a boy in a yellow haori, orange-gradient hair, and a slightly crooked sword. His robe was wrinkled. His wig was a little off-center. But his eyes—wide, startled, outlined by nerves he hadn’t bothered to hide—were unmistakable.

Jackson Powell.

School nerd. Art room regular. The kid who always sat in the front row, sketching in the margins of his notes. The boy everyone called “dork” behind his back. The boy she’d pretended not to know in the hallways.

She’d seen him at school in anime tees and hoodies that didn’t fit quite right. She’d watched Brad and the rest of the football guys “joke” with him until the jokes didn’t sound like jokes anymore.

And now he was standing here, in her secret safe place, wearing the same anime character she’d chosen.

He stared at her like he’d just watched the school’s most popular girl step out of a cartoon.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here—what?” he blurted. “Uh—what are you doing here?”

Emily’s heart slammed against her ribs. Panic flooded her, hot and sharp.

What was he doing here?
What was she doing here?
What if he told someone?

She took a step toward him, eyes flashing. “What do you mean what am I doing here?” she hissed. “If you tell anyone from school that I’m here, I will—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jackson lifted both hands, nearly dropping his foam sword. “Why are you so mad?”

“Because obviously you’re trying to blackmail me,” she snapped, her voice too loud, too bright in the crowded shop.

A few people glanced over. Emily dropped her volume, but the panic didn’t fade.

Blackmail. Leverage. Screenshots. Group chats. At Maple Ridge High, secrets didn’t stay secrets. Not when everyone had a phone and nothing better to do.

Jackson blinked, stunned. “No, I swear. If you don’t want people to know you’re into cosplay, I promise I won’t say anything. I swear.”

“Then why are you here?” she demanded.

He looked almost offended by the question. “Because I’m really into cosplay,” he said, like it should have been obvious. “I want to make a living out of it someday. When I saw they opened a new spot here, I thought I’d stop by. Meet people who actually like the same stuff as me.”

The words hit her like a mirror.

That was exactly why she’d come.

For a second, the fight drained out of her. Her shoulders sagged. The weight of home, school, expectations, prom, and her mother’s old yearbook suddenly pressed in again.

“Well, you should go find another cosplay club,” she muttered, clinging to the last shred of distance she had between her two worlds. “Because I can’t let my real life get mixed with what I do here.”

She turned away, blinking rapidly. The neon lights blurred. Her throat burned.

She didn’t want anyone from school to see this version of her. Not the Emily who stitched costumes in secret, who stayed up late rewatching anime with tears in her eyes because it reminded her of her mom. Not the Emily who wasn’t perfect, who wasn’t polished, who wasn’t always in control.

Behind her, Jackson watched her shoulders tremble.

“Are you… actually crying?” he asked quietly.

“No.” Her voice cracked.

“I think you are,” he said, softer now. “Why do you care so much?”

She laughed, but it sounded broken. “Because I get it, okay? I’m a loser. Even the nerds at school don’t want to hang out with me because I’m too nerdy. I thought maybe this place would be different. And then you show up.”

There it was. Something raw and real.

For the first time since he’d known of her, the queen of Maple Ridge High didn’t sound like a queen at all.

Fine, Jackson thought, and something inside him shifted.

“You can join if you want to,” he said.

Her head snapped toward him. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “But you cannot tell anyone about this. If you do, I’ll make your life miserable.”

Her eyes broadened, then narrowed in something like amused disbelief. “Oh. No, I got it,” she said quickly. “Got it. Thank you. Thank you.”

He shrugged, cheeks tinged pink under the wig. For someone who’d spent his whole life on the outside, he’d just let her in without much of a fight.

He didn’t even know that he’d just handed her the one lifeline she didn’t know she’d needed.

Far from the strip mall, Maple Ridge High School shone under the California sun like every teen movie cliché rolled into one. A big American flag waved over the main building. The football field stretched behind the school, painted lines bright against crisp green turf. Inside the halls, lockers slammed, sneakers squeaked, and the same old social hierarchy trickled down from the cheerleaders’ table to the loners by the vending machines.

On Monday, Jackson rolled into school still riding the high from Friday night. The cosplay club had been weird and loud and chaotic, but for the first time in a long time, he hadn’t felt completely invisible.

His good mood lasted exactly eight seconds.

“Way to go, dork,” a familiar voice called out.

Brad Hastings—captain of the football team, human billboard for expensive hair gel, widely assumed future prom king—leaned against a row of lockers with his buddies, smirking. His letterman jacket hung open over a white tee. He had the lazy confidence of someone who’d never had to fight for attention in his life.

“Look at what he’s wearing,” one of the guys laughed.

Jackson glanced down at his hoodie—bright yellow, with his favorite anime character printed across the front. Zenitsu clutched his sword, lightning crackling behind him.

“So you’re still into cartoons?” another guy jeered. “What are you, six?”

“This is not a cartoon,” Jackson said quietly. “It’s anime.”

“Seriously, you look ridiculous,” one of them said. “It’s pathetic.”

The word settled in his chest like a stone.

He pretended it didn’t hurt. He pretended he’d heard worse. Sometimes that made it easier.

He turned quickly, nearly colliding with Emily.

“Hey, Emily,” he managed.

She barely looked at him. “Ew. Don’t act like you know me,” she snapped loudly, for the benefit of the audience watching.

Jackson flinched.

Brad wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come on, babe. We have to order your dress and my tux today, remember?”

Emily forced a smile. “Right. All good,” she said, turning away from Jackson. “I was done with this loser anyway.”

The word “loser” should have bounced off him. Instead, it lodged itself beside “pathetic” and sat there, heavy and cold.

Later, in the local boutique downtown, the soft glow of chandeliers and the racks of shimmering gowns did nothing to ease the knot forming in Emily’s stomach.

“This one is absolutely gorgeous,” her friend Sam squealed, holding up a sparkling dress.

Emily ran her fingers over the pale fabric of the gown she’d chosen—elegant, timeless, the kind of dress that would photograph perfectly. Her mom would have loved it. Or at least, the version of her mother who lived in an old yearbook and grainy home videos would.

“I just want to make sure my dress and Brad’s tux match,” Emily said carefully. “Just in case we win.”

“What do you mean ‘in case’?” Sam giggled. “Everyone already knows you’re going to win prom queen. I’ve got the whole football team, basketball team, and the entire cheer squad ready to vote for you.”

Emily smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

She could hear her mother’s voice, from an old video Emily had watched so many times the tape had warped.

You know, Em, prom night was magic. I felt like the whole world spun around me.

“I just really want to make my mom proud,” Emily murmured. “She always talked about how incredible that night was. It’s all she ever wanted for me.”

Sam nudged her. “Well, speaking of incredible nights, my parents are gone again. A bunch of us are going to chill at my place. You in?”

Emily hesitated. The picture flashed in her mind—pizza boxes, loud music, phones everywhere, Brad’s arm wrapped around her like she was a trophy.

“Oh, I’d love to,” she lied, “but I can’t. I have to help my dad with something at home tonight.”

“Again?” one of the other girls groaned. “This is the third time this month.”

“I’m not blowing you guys off,” Emily insisted. “I just… can’t let him down. You get it, right?”

The truth she didn’t say was that things had been tight at home. Her dad looked more tired every week, lines deepening on his forehead. Between work and medical bills and a house that suddenly felt too big and too small all at once, he clung to the time he had with her.

Helping him wasn’t just an excuse. It was non-negotiable.

By the time she arrived back at Cosplay Collective that night, the yellow wig already twisted into its signature messy shape, Emily felt like she’d stepped out of one world and into another.

Jackson was there again, fussing with his haori in a mirror. When he turned, his eyes lit up.

“Hey, Zenitsu!” a girl in a Nezuko costume called from across the room. “Where are you going?”

Emily froze, then let out an embarrassed laugh. “You can tell who I’m supposed to be?”

“Great Nezuko cosplay,” Jackson said, grin widening. “You’re into Demon Slayer too?”

“More like obsessed,” she admitted, relaxing. “It’s my favorite anime right now. But, you don’t have to lie. My cosplay skills are not where they should be. Unlike yours. Yours is amazing.”

“You’re kidding, right?” he said. “My wig looks like I lost a fight with a hairdryer. But thanks.”

“I can help you with yours,” she offered impulsively. “If you want.”

His cheeks flushed. “Yeah. Okay.”

They spent the next hour hunched over foam, fabric, and reference photos. They argued about which arc was better, which character had the saddest backstory, which convention in the U.S. was the dream to attend someday. For every sharp, mean word she exchanged at school, she laughed twice here. For every fake smile she gave Brad, she gave Jackson a real one.

“How does someone like you get into anime?” he blurted at one point.

She raised an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

He winced. “Sorry. That sounded… bad. I just meant… you’re so popular. I never thought you’d like this stuff.”

“I’ve been into anime my whole life,” she said quietly. “My mom and I used to watch it together when I was a kid. We’d stay up late bingeing shows and eating microwave popcorn. After she got sick, it was the only thing that made her smile. I guess I never stopped.”

He looked at her differently after that. Less like she was a symbol and more like she was a person.

“What about you?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Same. My mom and I moved here from Arizona when I was twelve. I didn’t fit in, but anime characters always did. Thought maybe if I learned to build worlds and costumes like theirs, I could make a life out of it.”

Her chest squeezed unexpectedly. “You have an awesome mom,” she said.

“Yeah. I know.”

Later that night, she convinced him to try something that made his nerves spike to a whole new level.

“Have you posted any cosplay photos yet?” she asked.

“No,” he said instantly. “No way. I can’t.”

“I thought you wanted to make a living doing this,” she pointed out. “You kind of need to post your work.”

“Maybe as a behind-the-scenes designer. Not a face. Cosplayers are cool. I’m… clearly not.”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the backdrop near the window.

“Go stand over there,” she ordered. “Come on, Zenitsu. Smile.”

He tried to look serious. She cracked a joke. He broke into a genuine grin, bright and surprised.

She snapped the photo.

“Not cool,” he muttered, embarrassed.

“Look at this and tell me it’s not cool,” she said, shoving the phone toward him.

He stared at the image. For once, he didn’t look like the loser everyone called him. He looked like a character with lightning in his veins.

“Give me your number,” she said. “I’ll text it to you.”

He hesitated, then recited the digits. It was the first time in a long time he’d given his number to a girl and not expected it to be a prank.

He went home that night practically floating.

His mom was waiting for him at the kitchen table, sipping tea and scrolling through her phone.

“Well, well,” she teased, watching his goofy smile. “Looks like someone had fun.”

Jackson pretended to roll his eyes. “I made a new friend,” he admitted. “For real this time.”

“She, huh?” his mom said, one eyebrow arched.

He sighed theatrically. “Her name’s Emily. And she’s amazing. She’s into all the same stuff as me.”

His mom didn’t tease him after that. She just smiled softly and let him disappear into his room, where he pulled out his sketchbook and started penciling ideas, the kind of ideas that only come when someone finally believes in you.

Days blurred by in a strange rhythm.

At school, Emily remained Brad’s girlfriend, the girl everyone expected to glide effortlessly into the role her mother once held. At home, she was a dutiful daughter, helping her dad sort paperwork, doing laundry, juggling grades.

At Cosplay Collective, she was just a girl with dark circles under her eyes and hot glue burns on her fingers, laughing too loud with the boy everyone else ignored.

Brad noticed the difference, even if he couldn’t name it.

One afternoon, in the cafeteria, he watched Emily stiffen as he and his friends approached Jackson again.

“Look who’s here,” Brad said, a cruel edge slipping into his voice. “What do you say, boys? Wanna have some fun?”

His buddies snickered.

“Come on,” one of them muttered. “He’s not bothering anyone.”

“He’s bothering me just being in the same room,” Brad said.

Emily shifted uncomfortably. “What’s up with you lately?” she asked. “You never used to care about this stuff.”

He shrugged, then reached forward and slapped a smear of ketchup onto Jackson’s shirt in one swift motion.

“It looks like you got something there,” Brad said with a fake smile. “Let me help you out with that.”

His friends howled with laughter.

Jackson stared down at the stain, face burning.

He muttered something about needing a book from his locker and stumbled away.

“I’ll go with you,” Emily offered on instinct.

“No, it’s okay,” he said too quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

He didn’t come back.

She found him in the hallway, near the art wing, back against a locker, breathing slowly like he was trying not to fall apart.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she said softly. “Brad was a jerk. He shouldn’t have done that.”

“He’s not just sometimes a jerk,” Jackson said. “He is a jerk. Why are you even with someone like that?”

“What do you mean?” she said, like the question truly confused her. “Of course I’m with him. He’s the most popular guy in school. And I’m… me.”

She trailed off.

“Sometimes I think that since I’m popular too, I have to date people in the same clique,” she admitted softly. “Like it’s a rule or something.”

“Who made that rule?” Jackson asked.

She didn’t answer.

The rest of the week, their worlds tugged and twisted in opposite directions.

Brad and his friends started whispering more. Emily’s cheer squad noticed she was distracted. The cosplay group, blissfully removed from high school politics, only noticed that Jackson’s designs were getting better and his smile came quicker whenever Emily walked in.

Meanwhile, Jackson’s mom watched him grow quieter each time he came home from school, even as he lit up when he talked about the club.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently one afternoon, knocking on his half-closed door.

“Nothing,” he muttered, wiping at his eyes. “I’m just a nerd, Mom. That’s all I’ll ever be.”

“I never want to hear you talk about yourself like that,” she said, sitting beside him. “You are special. If you’d just come out of your shell a little, everyone else would see it too.”

He shrugged. “I just want to be alone.”

She didn’t push. She just stayed outside the door a little longer than usual.

Friday changed everything.

Emily didn’t show up at Sam’s house after school. She didn’t respond in the group chat. She ignored call after call. Instead, she spent the evening hunched over her sewing machine, finishing the most intricate design she had ever attempted—a dress that merged her mother’s timeless prom style with a dramatic anime silhouette.

The next morning, the gossip wheels spun faster than ever.

“Emily blew us off again,” one of the girls muttered at practice. “What is with her?”

“Maybe she’s got a secret boyfriend,” another joked.

“Or maybe it has something to do with that Jackson freak,” Sam said. “I saw them in the art room yesterday. She was being all sweet to him. It was gross.”

Brad’s jaw tightened.

“If she dumps me for that nerd,” he said, “I’ll be the joke of the whole school.”

Sam leaned in with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Then beat her to it,” she murmured. “Dump her first.”

His eyes flickered, a plan forming.

At the same time, in a very different corner of the internet, something else was forming.

Overnight, the photo of Jackson in his Zenitsu cosplay—posted by someone from the club who’d been filming behind-the-scenes content—started gaining traction. It got shared in an anime fan group. Then another. Then an influencer reposted it with a caption about underrated cosplayers.

By Monday morning, he’d gone viral.

He didn’t know it yet.

He was halfway to his locker when a girl from his math class sprinted up, out of breath.

“Dude, you have to check Instagram,” she panted. “You went viral.”

“What? No, I didn’t,” he said. “I don’t even have Instagram.”

She shoved her screen in his face.

There he was. Wig and all. Lined with likes and comments.

Even a verified creator had commented on it, saying how sick the cosplay was.

Jackson’s vision fuzzed. “That can’t be real.”

“Do you take commissions?” she blurted. “Because my little brother’s obsessed. And that looks insane.”

He didn’t notice Brad watching from across the hallway, eyes narrowed, everything clicking at once.

By lunchtime, the rumor about Emily and Jackson had twisted into something ugly in a dozen group chats.

When Emily finally arrived to meet her friends outside the cafeteria, every eye turned to her.

“Well, look who decided to show up,” Sam said.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Emily said. “And this morning. Things have just been really busy at home.”

“Does that ‘busy’ include hanging out with Jackson yesterday?” Sam asked, words sharp. “Because I saw you with him in the art room.”

Emily’s heart stuttered. These were the people she’d grown up with. The people she’d believed she had to keep happy.

She took a breath—and lied.

“Oh, that,” she said, forcing a laugh. “I was telling him how much of a freak he is. I’d never hang out with him. That’s gross.”

The words tasted like poison.

“Good,” Sam said, satisfied. “We’re heading to Sam’s again tonight. You in?”

Emily swallowed. Her dad’s voice echoed in her mind. The unpaid bills. The quiet worry. The framed photo of her mom on the mantel.

“Tonight? Sorry. I can’t. I promised my dad I’d help him.”

“Shocker,” one girl muttered.

By the time the final bell rang, Emily felt like she was walking a tightrope over two different lives.

She went straight to the art room.

Jackson was there, hunched over a worktable, fabric, foam, and reference sketches spread everywhere.

“Looking for someone in particular?” he asked without looking up.

“What do you think?” she shot back, but there was a softness to it.

He glanced up and froze.

She wasn’t in her usual polished outfit. She was wearing a graphic tee and leggings, hair pulled up into a messy bun. She looked like herself, but stripped of the performance.

“So,” he said, “is that what you’re wearing to prom?”

She laughed. “No. This is.”

She pulled out her latest creation—a dramatic gown that looked half runways, half anime fantasy.

His jaw dropped. “You’re going to wear that in public?”

A flicker of fear crossed her face.

“I was going to,” she admitted. “Until today.”

They talked for so long they lost track of time. They talked about the pressure of being someone everyone watched. About how hard it was to be yourself when your entire value seemed tied to what other people thought.

“You’re still going to prom, right?” he asked when she finally grabbed her backpack.

She hesitated. “I don’t know.”

Days passed. Pranks escalated. Someone printed Jackson’s viral cosplay photo and taped it all over the school with mocking captions. He tried to laugh it off—until he saw the look on Emily’s face, equal parts horror and something else… guilt.

It all exploded the week of prom.

He’d been working quietly in the art room when the shouting started.

He stepped into the hallway just in time to see Emily standing frozen in the middle of a circle. Her phone screen glowed in her hand. Her face had gone pale.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She turned the phone around.

On the screen was a video—her, in full Nezuko cosplay, taken without her knowledge during one of their club nights. The audio had been edited. The caption labeled her as a “secret weirdo.” The post was already being shared.

“You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone,” she whispered.

“Tell anyone what?” he asked, stunned. “I had nothing to do with this.”

“Why should I believe you?” she demanded, panic lacing every word.

“Because we did it,” Sam’s voice cut in.

Emily spun.

Sam and a few others from their clique stood there, unbothered, proud.

“No,” Emily said, horrified. “You’re my friends.”

“Friends?” Sam scoffed. “We’re not friends with people who play dress up with that crowd. This whole time I’ve been hanging out with a dork. Do you know how embarrassing that is?”

Brad stepped forward, jaw tight. “Luckily, I found out before the whole school did,” he said. “Now I can upgrade.”

He slipped his arm around Sam.

“What?” Emily whispered. “You can’t go with her. You’re supposed to be my prom date. We were supposed to be prom king and queen.”

“About that,” Sam said sweetly. “Since Brad’s going with me, I got a dress just like yours. We’ll match. And I already told everyone to vote for us instead of you.”

The words tore something inside of her.

“We’re over,” Brad said casually, like it was nothing. Like their years together meant less than one viral moment.

The crowd started to disperse.

“How could you do that to her?” Jackson demanded, stepping forward.

“Of course you’d defend her, Tweedledee-Dork,” one of Brad’s friends sneered. “Go after your little cosplay queen.”

Jackson watched Emily stumble away, shoulders shaking, eyes glassy.

“Go after her,” his mom’s voice echoed in his mind. “People would see how special you are if you came out of your shell.”

He did.

He found her outside, behind the gym, near the bleachers. The California sky stretched orange and pink overhead, the late afternoon breeze warm against his skin.

“You don’t have to listen to them,” he said quietly. “You’re still going to prom, right?”

She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Are you kidding? It’s over. My date. My dress. The only reason I even wanted to go was to be prom queen, like my mom. I failed her.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

“I just want to be alone,” she whispered.

He watched her walk away, small and fragile against the backdrop of the big, loud American high school.

Jackson went home, the anger simmering inside him finally sharp enough to cut through his fear.

He went straight to his desk, flipped open his laptop, and started typing.

He wrote a long message to one of the very creators who’d commented on his original cosplay photo—a YouTuber he’d admired for years. He explained what happened. He explained who Emily was. He attached photos of the dress she’d designed, the sketches she’d sent him, the way she’d helped him when he’d had no confidence.

He didn’t expect a response.

He definitely didn’t expect his phone to buzz twenty minutes later.

Hey, this is amazing. I’m actually in California for a charity event. Where are you located?

His hands shook as he typed back.

By the next afternoon, he was bouncing on the balls of his feet in the living room while his mom grabbed her car keys.

“What are you so happy about?” she asked, half amused, half suspicious.

“You’ll see,” he said. “Can you give me a ride somewhere when I’m done?”

“Of course.”

He worked until his fingers cramped, but when he finally held the finished dress in his hands—stitched with extra care, reinforced seams, small hidden details only a true fan would notice—he knew it was worth it.

At the Port house, Emily sat on her bed, her mother’s old prom photo spread across her lap. Her dad knocked gently, worry in his eyes.

“You can’t miss prom, sweetie,” he said. “Your mom would want you to go.”

“What’s the point?” she whispered. “I can’t win now. I let her down. I just want to be alone.”

He sighed and closed the door quietly.

A few minutes later, another knock sounded.

“Dad, please,” she said, throat tight. “I need some space.”

“It’s not your dad,” a voice replied. “It’s Jackson. Can I come in?”

Her heart lurched. “Just a second.”

She wiped her eyes, shoved the prom photo under her pillow, and cracked open the door.

He stood there, hair a little messy, eyes bright. Behind him, she could see shadows in the hallway.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I brought some people who want to help,” he said.

“That’s sweet, but I seriously doubt—”

She stopped.

Standing behind him were two faces she recognized immediately, faces she’d watched for years on her laptop screen after midnight, faces that belonged in Los Angeles, in studios, not in her narrow American hallway.

“Hi,” one of them said, waving. “We heard you’re having a rough week.”

Her brain short-circuited. “What are you doing at my house?” she squeaked. “If this is a prank—”

“It’s not,” the creator said, smiling. “We were in California for an event. Jackson told us your story. We wanted to come see if we could help.”

“You… want to help me?” she said, stunned.

“I know it can be scary to be yourself,” the creator said. “I struggled with that too. But I learned something important. If you can’t be yourself around someone, you’re not the problem. They are. And if people don’t like the real you, they’re not your people.”

“What if no one likes the real me?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.

“I know at least one person who does,” Jackson said quietly.

She looked at him.

He swallowed. “I was hoping you’d go to prom with me tonight.”

All the air seemed to leave the hallway.

“No,” she blurted.

His face fell.

“No, I mean—yes,” she corrected quickly, words tumbling out. “Yes to that. Yes to you. Yes to—everything. I just can’t. I don’t have a dress anymore. And it’s too late to do my hair. Or makeup. Or, you know, fix my entire life.”

One of the guests smirked. “I can help with the hair and makeup part.”

“And I can help with the dress,” Jackson said. “I made this for you.”

He held it out.

She gasped.

It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. The base silhouette echoed her mom’s prom dress—classic lines, elegant neckline—but the embellishments, the cape, the color gradients, the tiny motifs sewn into the hem, all screamed anime heroine.

“You were designing a costume for me anyway,” he said, cheeks pink. “I just made it more formal.”

“This is…” Her voice broke. “This is amazing.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” the creator laughed. “You two have a prom to crash.”

For the first time that week, Emily smiled without forcing it.

An hour later, Maple Ridge High’s gym pulsed with pop music and colored lights. Balloons floated near the rafters. A banner reading “Maple Ridge High Prom – A Night Under The Stars” hung above the stage, where a DJ hyped the crowd.

Brad and Sam stood near the center, surrounded by their clique, basking in attention. Their outfits matched perfectly—his tux sharp, her dress nearly identical to the one Emily had planned to buy.

“I can’t wait to be announced,” Sam whispered. “Everyone voted for us.”

“Of course they did,” Brad said, lifting his chin. “Who else would they vote for? Those two losers?”

He didn’t have to specify who.

The gym doors opened.

Conversation stuttered. Heads turned.

Emily stepped in, Jackson at her side.

The air shifted.

The dress shimmered in the rotating lights, every carefully stitched detail catching and reflecting color. Her hair, styled with just enough flair, framed her face like she’d been born for this spotlight—not the glittery, shallow one she’d been chasing, but one that actually fit her.

This time, she wasn’t trying to look like anyone else. She looked like herself.

“Ew,” Sam hissed loudly. “What on earth is she wearing? I’d rather disappear than be seen in that.”

Emily heard her. And for the first time in her life, she truly didn’t care.

“I love it,” Emily said calmly. “That’s all that matters.”

“She’s such a nerd,” Brad scoffed. “Can’t believe I dated her.”

Jackson squared his shoulders. “Mock us all you want,” he said. “You’re just mad you’re too insecure to be yourself.”

“Ooh,” someone whispered nearby. A few people stifled grins.

Brad flushed. “Like I care what two nerds think. In ten minutes we’re going to be crowned prom king and queen.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jackson murmured under his breath.

“Everyone, gather around!” the principal called into the mic. “It’s time to announce your prom king and queen.”

The gym filled with students, pressing closer to the stage.

Brad wrapped an arm tighter around Sam’s waist. She smirked.

“And this year’s Maple Ridge High prom king and queen are…” The principal paused for dramatic effect. “Emily Port and Jackson Powell!”

The room exploded.

Gasps. Cheers. A few confused shouts. Then, louder cheers, building and rolling through the gym like a wave.

“What?!” Sam shrieked.

“There’s no way,” Brad said. “Everyone voted for us.”

“Not true,” a voice called from the crowd. “We voted for them. Both of them.”

One by one, kids who’d stayed silent all year started speaking up.

The girl from math class. The guy from band. Two athletes who’d gotten tired of being told who to cheer for. Even a few members of the cheer squad stepped away from Sam’s side and started clapping, loudly and proudly.

Brad lunged for the crown, but the principal pulled it away, frowning. “That’s enough,” he said. “Get off the stage.”

Sam grabbed for the microphone. “You’re all losers!” she shouted. “Every last one of you!”

The crowd booed her.

Brad stormed out, dragging her behind him, his perfect hair flopping out of place for the first time all year.

Emily stood frozen at the edge of the stage, shaking slightly.

“Go,” Jackson’s mom whispered from somewhere near the back, pride written across her face. “That’s your moment.”

Jackson reached out his hand.

She took it.

They walked up together, not as a queen chased by expectations and a nerd chased by bullies, but as something entirely new.

The crowns were lighter than she expected when they settled on their heads. The applause was louder. And somewhere, in the din of the gym, she could almost hear her mother’s voice, whispering from an old photograph.

All you have to do is be yourself.

“Thank you,” Emily said into the mic, voice trembling for a different reason now. “Thank you for voting for us. For seeing us. For… letting me be me. I spent a long time trying to be the girl everyone wanted me to be. But tonight, I’m here as who I really am. And if my mom could see me now, I think she’d be proud. Not because I won, but because I didn’t hide.”

She handed the mic to Jackson.

He swallowed. Public speaking had never been his thing. Public anything had never been his thing. But tonight, the fear didn’t feel so big.

“I thought I had to change who I was to fit in,” he said. “Turns out I just had to find people who liked me as I am. If you feel like a loser, or a nerd, or like you don’t belong, I promise, there are people out there who will see you. Real friends won’t be embarrassed by you. They’ll stand next to you.”

He glanced at Emily.

“Even on prom night,” he finished.

The DJ cranked up the music. Colored lights spun. The floor cleared for the first dance.

Jackson turned to Emily, nerves and excitement wrestling in his chest. “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

“I’d love to,” she said.

They moved to the center of the floor, surrounded by their classmates, by noise, by light. Her dress swished around them like something out of the shows they loved. His tie was slightly crooked. Neither of them knew what they were doing.

It didn’t matter.

For the first time in a long time, Emily didn’t feel like she was performing someone else’s story. Jackson didn’t feel like he was stuck on the sidelines of his own life.

Somewhere above the gym, the American flag flapped softly in the night breeze. Beyond the parking lot, Maple Ridge’s neon strip continued to glow, the Cosplay Collective sign humming in the dark.

Tomorrow, life would go back to normal. There would be homework and college applications and part-time jobs and family responsibilities. There would be bills and worries and late nights.

But there would also be late-night sewing sessions, new designs, conventions they’d plan to attend all over the United States, a world of possibilities bigger than their small town.

Tonight, under the cheap disco ball and the watchful gaze of a crowd that had finally seen them clearly, two so-called losers danced like they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

Not as a secret.

Not as a joke.

But as themselves.