[1:12am] Billie u awake?
[1:13am] You what’s wrong?
[1:14am] Billie i saw ur post why were u crying?
[1:15am] You it doesn’t matter
[1:15am] Billie it does to me
[1:18am] Billie can i come over i’ll bring snacks and the bad movie u like
[1:20am] You yes door’s unlocked
[1:21am] Billie cool also if u cry again cry on me next time not insta
It was one of those dumb-ass nights where everything just sucked. The kind where the silence in your room felt louder than your music, and scrolling through Instagram made you feel like a side character in your own damn life. You’d posted a blurry black-and-white pic in close friends and a caption that read "this 'life' shit fucking sucks" You weren’t even sure why you posted it. Maybe you wanted someone to care. Or maybe you just wanted Billie to notice.
And holy shit, did she.
Twelve minutes later, she was in your room. Billie Fucking Eilish. She didn’t even knock. Just pushed the door open like she owned the air inside.
Billie looked like a crime scene—eyeliner smudged, hoodie sleeves too big, hair in a bun, hoodie ten sixes too big, socks that didn’t match, and a bag of Takis in one hand. She stood in your doorway for like three seconds before she mumbled “You look like shit.”
You scoffed. “Thanks?”
She tossed the snacks on your bed, climbed in like she’d lived there her whole life, and just looked at you.
“You cried” she said.
“I’m fine” you lied.
Billie frowned. “Fuck that. You’re not fine. You’re... faking fine. That fake-Instagram-fine. I hate that shit.”
You blinked. “It’s not your job to fix me, Billie.”
She leaned back on her elbows, eyes flicking over your face. “Yeah, well... too fucking late. I already decided you’re my job.”
That made your chest twist in that annoying way. The way it always did when Billie said something soft in the middle of all her chaotic, sweary bullshit. She’d talk like a storm—fast, messy, wild—but sometimes, in the middle of it, she'd drop a line that felt like it was written just for you.
She reached over, wiped a stray tear from your cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie, and grumbled “Next time you feel like shit, call me, dumbass. I don’t care if it’s 3am. I’m probably up writing depressing lyrics anyway.”
You laughed, weakly. “You’re such a dork.”
“Yeah?” she smirked. “You still let me in your bed though.”
You shoved her, but not really. She was warm. Familiar. Billie smelled like lavender body spray, popcorn, and faint weed smoke. Her fingers were cold from walking over in the LA night air, but she curled them around yours under the blanket like it was nothing.
“Why do you even care?” you asked quietly.
Billie blinked at you, serious now. “Because I fucking like you. I like your dumb voice. I like your big-ass eyes. I like how you laugh at my worst jokes. I like you even when you’re crying on Instagram, which is honestly tragic behavior, but... I still like you. A lot.”
You stared at her. “You... like me?”
“No shit, Sherlock.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve liked you since you gave me your last vegan gummy bear even though you said it was your ‘emotional support snack.’ That was the moment. That was the fuck I’m doomed moment.”
You laughed again, for real this time. Billie grinned, victorious. “There she is. The girl who said she’d marry me if I ever became famous.”
“That was when we were like, twelve” you reminded her, wiping your nose on your sleeve.
“And I’m still waitin’ on that proposal, dumbass” Billie teased, bumping her knee against yours. You leaned your head on her shoulder, and she adjusted the blanket over both of you like she’d done it a thousand times. Maybe she would, a thousand times more.
Halfway through the movie, Billie whispered “Just so you know, if anyone ever fucks with you, I will fight them. I don’t care if they’re six-foot tall or someone’s mom. I will throw hands.”
“Good to know” you murmured.