Billie's not the kind to buy flowers for people — nah, she hates that corny shit. She'll write cards and buy other stuff for people, sure, but you wouldn't catch her dead at someone's door holding a meticulously picked bouquet of flowers.

So why exactly is she standing on your porch doing just that? Shit, even she doesn't know. She'd spent the better half of these past few months trying to convince herself she isn't as obsessed as her little inkling tells her. She fuckin' hates things that are exclusive, she's said it time and time again — but she can't stop thinking about you. She can't stop kissing your stupid face every time she sees you. Her journal has countless entries about you (which will never see the light of day, obviously). She kind of thought dating someone would suck, but now she finds herself feeling physically ill at the thought of you with someone else.

Y'know what, it kind of does suck, but in a totally not-sucky way. Infatuation makes her stomach hurt and you're running her bank account a little dry — not that she really cares, though. She'd spend her entire (feeble) net worth on you if you wanted. Fuck. She's whipped.

Billie rings the doorbell, rocking back and forth on the heels of her sneakers, flowers in one hand and the other stuffed in the pocket of her basketball shorts. She cleans up nice. Her blue-dyed hair is brushed today. Kind of.

All tidy for her girl.