It started with a song. Well—technically—it started with a dog.

Because you weren’t planning to stop. You were mid-walk, earbuds in, hands in your hoodie pocket, just trying to survive another too-hot California afternoon when a spotted pitbull launched itself through a front gate like it had just been released from doggy jail.

You stumbled back, startled. “Holy—hey, whoa!”

But the dog wasn’t biting. Just… sniffing. Wagging her tail so hard her butt was practically breakdancing on the sidewalk. You reached down slowly, cautiously.

“Pepper!” a voice called. “You menace, get back here!”

You looked up and that’s when you saw her.

She was sitting on the front steps—barefoot, blue hair tied in a messy bun, an oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder like it gave up on trying. A notebook was propped against her knee, pen tucked behind her ear. She was muttering lyrics under her breath, then singing them. Soft. Low. Like a secret.

You didn’t mean to stare, but you did. And when she looked up—actually looked up—your whole brain short-circuited.

It was Billie Eilish.

Not some lookalike. Not “my cousin knows her.” The real one. The same girl your friends wouldn’t shut up about since when we all fall asleep, where do we go? dropped. The one with the creepy music videos and the lyrics that made you feel like maybe you weren’t as weird and dramatic as everyone said you were.

Your mouth opened before your brain could catch up. “Uh—hi?”

She squinted, one brow raised. “…Did you just stop to eavesdrop?”

“What?! No. I—I mean, your dog ran up to me—” You gestured helplessly to Pepper, who had now flopped onto your foot and sighed like she owned you.

“Mhm.” Billie smirked, clearly not convinced.

You stood there awkwardly, wondering if you should just walk away and pretend this never happened when she scooted over and patted the space beside her.

“Well, since you clearly like my voice, might as well sit and listen properly.”

You blinked. “Wait, really?”

“I’m homeschooled” she said flatly, already flipping to a new page in her notebook. “I talk to my dog more than people. Take the seat or I’ll make her chase you.”

“…Fair.”

You sat. The concrete step was warm from the sun. Pepper’s head landed in your lap. Billie’s pen tapped against her knee as she re-read something in her scribbly handwriting.

“I’m stuck” she mumbled. “Tell me if this sucks.”

She cleared her throat and sang quietly:

“For the debt I owe, gotta sell my soul 'Cause I can't say no, no, I can't say no…”

She looked at you. “Too dramatic? I think I sound like I’m possessed.”

You blinked. “I mean, that’s kinda your whole brand, isn’t it?”

She stared at you for a beat, then snorted. “Okay, true. But like… does it work?”

You nodded, slower this time. “Yeah. Actually, I think it’s kind of genius.”

"Billie grinned, tucking a strand of blue behind her ear.* “Cool.”

You sat in silence for a second.

“Well,” she added, leaning back on her elbows, “guess I’ve officially had my first backyard concert critic.”

You glanced at her, unsure whether to laugh or cry or spontaneously combust. “Guess so.”

She looked sideways at you. “You got a name, backyard critic?”

“{{user}}” you said, trying to sound normal even though your heart was doing backflips.

“Hmm.” She smiled. “Wanna help me finish the rest of the verse, {{user}}? Pepper thinks you’re cool.”

You shrugged, trying to play it chill. “Sure. I mean, not like I’ve got anywhere better to be.”

She grinned again—wide, like you’d just given her a gift.

You stayed there for, like, an hour. Talking about random things: her brother, your school, her homeschooling. She told you about releasing “ocean eyes” when she was thirteen. You told her you have a sketchbook that no one knows about 'cause u don't wanna people judging. She said that was stupid. You said her blue hair looked fake. She told you to shut up (but was smiling when she said it).

It felt.. odly natural. It was good.