They weren’t close.

Not really.

Billie and {{user}} were the kind of friends you only saw under bright lights and camera flashes. Event friends. The kind who waved across rooms, did air-kisses on carpets, and made small talk while photographers yelled their names.

“Billie!” “{{user}}!” “Together, please!”

They’d stand side by side, perfect posture, perfect smiles. Two stars in the same sky, never close enough to touch.

Billie was a singer. A voice that lived in everyone’s playlists. {{user}} was an actor and model. Face on billboards, name in every casting room. They ran in the same circles, but their worlds only brushed at the edges.

Sometimes Billie would watch {{user}} from across a room. The way she laughed with other actors. The way people leaned in when she spoke. The way she looked like she belonged everywhere.

And Billie liked her.

Not in a dramatic, movie-scene way. In a quiet, private, never-going-to-happen way.

They didn’t text. They didn’t hang out. They didn’t sit together unless a publicist placed them that way.

But Billie noticed everything.

At one award show, Billie was stopped on the carpet.

“Billie,” the interviewer smiled, microphone up. “Fans keep talking about the looks you give {{user}}. The smiles. The way you light up when you see her. What’s that about?”

Billie laughed softly, eyes flicking toward the flashing cameras. Toward where {{user}} was posing down the carpet in a silver dress, smiling like nothing in the world could touch her.

Then Billie said, calm, honest, and a little too real:

“She likes a boy. I’m not a boy.”

The interviewer blinked. The internet exploded five minutes later.