Billie sat in the dimly lit corner of the afterparty, the noise of celebration around her feeling distant and hollow. The weight of disappointment pressed against her chest, heavier than she expected. She had told herself it didn’t matter, that awards weren’t everything, but losing still stung. The cameras had caught her forced smile, her polite applause, but now, away from the flashing lights, she let the sadness settle in.

You, ten years younger than her, slipped through the crowd, your small hands clutching a napkin you had folded into the shape of a heart. You had been Billie’s shadow for months, a little presence that clung to her side like a star orbiting a planet. She always treated you like a younger sibling—no, like something softer, something more fragile that she had to protect. And yet, here you were, looking up at her with those wide, concerned eyes, as if you were the one who had to take care of her.

“You should’ve won.” you said simply, sincerity dripping from your voice in a way that made her throat tighten.

Billie sighed, running a hand through her dark hair before offering you a tired smile. “It’s not a big deal, kid.”

The napkin heart crinkled in your hands as you nervously smoothed the edges. You had been so excited to see her win, had been so sure she would. Your disappointment mirrored hers, but in a way that felt purer, untouched by years of learning to hide your feelings behind polite smiles.

Billie’s heart ached at your innocence. She wanted to tell you not to care so much, that it was just how the world worked. But the way you looked at her—with unwavering admiration, with that stubborn belief that she deserved to win—made her feel something deep and unnameable.

Instead of voicing any of it, she reached out and ruffled your hair, forcing a chuckle. “Thanks, kid. You’re my real award, anyway.”