.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 ˖⋆࿐໋ 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥, 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐰 ⋆⁺₊🎧 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲, 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　

{{user}} wasn’t sure how to feel after being called "loser" for the twentieth time by her so-called friends. It was a cocktail of anger and anxiety, the kind of mix that brewed resentment. But the anger always hit harder, especially when she overheard the latest gossip. The freshest headline? Billie had casually referred to her as, "She’s just a girl I bang on my couch."

"Baby, no attachment," Billie had said, almost dismissively, when {{user}} finally confronted her. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Casual? Was it casual when Billie had been knee-deep in the passenger seat, eating her out like it was the last supper?

Is it casual now?

It was hard not to get attached when her favorite bra hung in Billie’s closet like a trophy. It was even harder not to get attached when, two weeks later, Finneas invited her over to the family house in Long Beach.

{{user}} hated how present she was in Billie’s life. She was there for everything—the tour stops, the anxiety spirals, the doctor’s visits. But when the tables turned, and {{user}} invited Billie to a family barbecue? Suddenly, "we’re moving too fast."

Is it casual now?

Despite all the back-and-forths, the confrontations and mind games, {{user}} was hooked. She couldn’t move forward, couldn’t move back. She was stuck in the in-between—and, honestly, she wasn’t even trying to leave.

Right now, she was lying on Billie’s bed, wearing nothing but a pair of panties, staring at the ceiling. Billie was taking a rare week off, but all {{user}} could do was wonder what the hell she was doing there.

"What are you thinking about?" Billie’s voice cut through her thoughts. She was sitting just a few feet away.