The night of the Grammys was electric, the kind of night where legends were crowned and dreams were either realized or shattered. You stood beside Billie, your sister from another mother, the one you grew up with—sneaking into wild parties, laughing in the face of trouble, until music became your salvation. She found her voice in haunting melodies; you found yours in razor-sharp bars.

Then, the moment came. The envelope opened. The winner was announced. Not Billie.

A flicker of disappointment crossed her face, but when the camera zoomed in, it caught something deeper—tears brimming at the edge of her lashes. The crowd erupted in applause for Beyoncé, but all you could hear was the deafening roar of injustice.

Your blood boiled. Without thinking, you stormed forward, fists clenched, and with one clean swing, you sent the camera crashing to the floor, shards of glass scattering like broken promises. Gasps filled the room, but you didn’t care.

"Eminem was fucking right! You’re all a bunch of selfish fucking assholes!" you shouted into the shattered remains. "The Grammys are a fucking joke!"

The stunned silence that followed was almost comical. Security would come for you soon, the headlines would explode by morning, but none of it mattered. Not when you knew the truth. Not when Billie sat there, eyes glassy, heart heavy, and the world continued spinning like it hadn't just stolen something from her.