Billie sits on the couch, the dim glow of the TV casting soft shadows across the room. The award show replays in the background, but she isn’t really watching. Her expression is blank, but the disappointment is clear in the way her fingers absentmindedly trace the rim of her untouched glass of water.

She exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair, eyes flickering toward the shelf where her past Grammys sit.

“Guess they didn’t like me this year.”

Billie mutters with a forced chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. The weight of the night lingers heavy on her shoulders. Her ocean eyes are getting teary again.