in all honesty i don’t care that billie and nat are together (it’s funny to act like it though) and neither should anyone else. she’s grown, she’s going to do what she wants and be with who she wants to be with.
what i am devastated over though is the fact that she’s playing halley’s comet and once again im not there🙄
edit: i’m begging y’all please stop freaking out about this, we’re gonna get black screened again 😭
this is not what i want. this is not what i planned. and i just gotta sayyyy. i do not understand. something is reallyyyy-, something’s not right-, really wroooonnnggg😭
nobody asked but one of my pet peeves is like pleasantries and fake niceness, fake anything honestly. it’s super annoying and a waste of time fr. doesn’t matter if you’re a friend or family i hate meaningless convos. rather not talk.
a/n: based off of back to friends by sombr (it's been on repeat guys)
wc: 4.7k (i fear i wrote a lot)
the night is quiet the kind of quiet that doesn’t just fill a room, but seeps into your skin. it settles low in your chest, soft and heavy, calming the noise in your head. outside, the city has dimmed into a distant hum, muffled by thick windows and the late hour. inside, everything feels suspended like time is holding its breath.
a movie plays on the screen, flickering in muted color. something you picked without thinking, half-heartedly scrolling until one of you said, “sure, that works.” neither of you really cared. the plot drifts in and out of your awareness, dialogue murmuring like background static. it’s not about the movie. it never was.
you’re stretched out on the couch, your body curved into hers like a question mark searching for its answer. billie’s arm is draped around your waist, her fingers resting light and warm against the thin fabric of your shirt. your legs are tangled beneath the throw blanket, soft and worn, the kind that smells faintly of her detergent and something deeply, unmistakably her.
the room glows dimly with the changing light from the tv. soft blues, silvers, the occasional flash of amber play across her face, casting gentle shadows on her cheekbones, the delicate hollow of her throat, the edge of her jaw. the light dances along the walls in slow, lazy waves, like water moving across a ceiling.
her house is quiet too. too big, too still when you’re alone. but with her, it feels full, like the space bends itself around the both of you. every creak in the floorboards, every distant shift of the pipes, every soft sigh of the heating vents sounds intentional, like the house is breathing alongside you.
you shift slightly and her hand moves with you, adjusting without thought. she doesn’t look away from the screen, but her thumb starts to trace slow, absent circles against your side, grounding you without a word.
your head is resting against her chest, and beneath the fabric of her shirt, you can hear her heartbeat, steady, slow, familiar. you weren’t looking for comfort, but here it is, quiet and effortless. something you didn’t realize you’d been aching for.
and for a little while, that’s all there is, the soft glow of the tv, the warmth of her beside you, and the steady hush of a night that feels like it was made just for the two of you.
you feel her fingers in your hair, slow and rhythmic. she’s not even looking at the screen anymore. neither are you, really. the movie is just background noise now. her touch, the warmth of her body, the hush between you, this is what you’ve come to rely on.
it’s not the first time you’ve fallen asleep like this. not even the tenth.
but tonight, something feels different.
you don’t know when it starts exactly. one minute you’re dozing, barely clinging to consciousness, and the next, you feel her hand move. not abruptly. it’s not a sudden jolt or anything like that. just… a slow, deliberate shift.
her hand slides from your hair, down your back, tracing a path through the thin fabric of your shirt. you tense, but only slightly. it’s not out of place, not entirely. you’re used to her being affectionate. it’s always been that way with billie. touch was just part of how she spoke when words fell short.
still, something about this moment makes your breath catch.
her hand trails further, fingers ghosting over your waist, and then, after a beat, it comes to rest on your thigh. lightly. barely there.
you pretend not to notice.
you keep your eyes closed, your head on her chest, focusing on the sound of her heartbeat instead of the warmth of her palm on your skin. you wonder if she knows what she’s doing. if she feels the shift too, the quiet ache pulling the air tighter around you both.
her thumb strokes gently, once, over the bare skin beneath your sleep shorts. you swallow hard. you could move. say something. break the spell.
but you don’t.
because this is billie. your best friend. the person you trust more than anyone. the one who knows you better than you know yourself.
and it’s not like this is new. you’ve always been close. always lingered in each other’s spaces a little too long. touched a little too often. whispered secrets into each other’s skin when the world felt too loud.
but tonight, it feels like teetering on the edge of something you both promised never to name.
the movie flickers in front of you, forgotten. her hand is still on your thigh, unmoving now, like she’s waiting. testing. you wonder if she’s holding her breath, too. if her chest is as tight as yours.
you shift slightly, not away, never away, but enough that your leg brushes hers more fully. an invitation, or a question. you don’t even know.
her fingers tighten just barely.
you feel the answer in that.
the silence stretches. not awkward, never awkward with her, but loaded. charged.
you want to ask her what she’s thinking, but your lips won’t move. you want to say something stupid like, “what are we doing?” but you're afraid the words might unravel everything.
so you stay quiet. and so does she.
instead, you lift your head a little, just enough to glance at her.
her eyes are already on you.
she’s not smiling. not smirking. just watching you with this look that’s too tender, too knowing. like she sees every single thing you’re trying not to say.
your heart skips. her hand doesn’t move.
“are you still watching?” she asks, her voice a whisper against the noise of the film.
“no,” you say, barely louder, your voice slipping just a little bit.
she nods, once, like she expected that. her gaze flicks to your lips and back. you feel it like a spark down your spine.
you know this is the moment. that thin, trembling line between friendship and something else, something you’ve both danced around for years.
she doesn’t lean in. she doesn’t kiss you. not yet.
instead, she looks at you like she’s waiting for permission. like she’s asking you without asking.
and you?
you give it.
your hand finds hers on your thigh, fingers brushing until they curl together, slow and deliberate. her touch is warm, a little unsure, but when you lace your fingers with hers, she doesn’t hesitate. it feels like anchoring, like you're both trying to hold onto something neither of you have words for yet.
she exhales, the sound slipping from her like it’s been sitting heavy on her chest for too long. it’s soft, somewhere between relief and confession.
“i don’t know what we’re doing,” she whispers, not looking at you. her voice is quiet, like it’s meant only for the space between your skin.
you squeeze her hand, your thumb tracing the back of hers. “me neither,” you say, just as softly.
but neither of you pull away.
minutes pass. or maybe longer. the movie fades into credits, then silence, and still, you’re wrapped around each other. her arms around your waist now, your body pressed into hers, legs tangled like roots, like if you let go, you might fall through the floor.
her breath is on your neck, warm and unsteady. when you shift slightly, your thigh brushes between hers, and she tenses, just barely. you feel it, the way her hand grips yours a little tighter, the way her lips part like she wants to say something but can’t quite.
you turn your head, slow, until your nose brushes against her cheek. her skin is warm. flushed.
“okay?” you murmur.
she nods. her eyes flutter shut as you press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, tentative, testing. she meets you there, softly, then again, a little deeper this time. the kiss is slow, careful, but there’s heat under it. like you’ve both been waiting for this, like something finally clicked into place.
her hands move, one slides up your back, the other finds your hip. your bodies shift, drawn together instinctively, and the blanket slips lower, forgotten. your fingers find the hem of her shirt, not pushing yet, just resting there, feeling the warm skin underneath. she breathes out against your lips, a shaky little sound that makes your stomach flip.
you pull back just enough to see her face. her pupils are blown wide, lips kiss-swollen. “you sure?” you ask again, because you need her to know she can stop this at any point.
she nods, then leans in, not with words, but with her mouth against yours, her body pressing closer. your hands move without thinking now, exploring in slow passes, learning the map of her like it’s something holy.
everything is unhurried. there’s no rush. just quiet sighs and soft gasps and the weight of want that’s been building for too long. clothes shift, skin meets skin in pieces, a shoulder exposed here, a bare stomach there. her fingers trail under your shirt, painting fire along your ribs.
and when she whispers your name, low and reverent, it doesn’t sound like lust. it sounds like home.
you don’t go further than this, not tonight. not all the way. but it’s enough, this closeness, this warmth, the way you’re both holding on like you finally know what you want, even if you still don’t know what to call it.
you can feel it. in your skin. in the way your heart beats when she shifts closer. in the way her lips brush your forehead like a promise.
you want to believe this is real. that this is the start of something you’ve both been waiting for, even if you didn’t say it out loud.
but part of you is scared.
because you know billie. you know how much she feels and how quickly she runs when it gets too big. too real.
still, in this moment, with her breath warm against your temple and her fingers laced with yours, you let yourself believe.
just for tonight.
you believe that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t just another one of those moments you’ll have to pretend didn’t mean anything.
the clock reads 2:41 am when you finally drift off.
the movie is long over. billie’s breathing is steady. her hand is still on your thigh, now relaxed and open. her body is curved around yours like a question you’re too afraid to answer.
years later the two of you take a trip together. just the two of you, no bodyguards, no unwanted photos. just you.
hawaii feels like a dream.
it always does when you’re with her, sunlight skipping over ocean water, wind tangled in your hair, and billie beside you, her fingers laced with yours like they belong there. you came out here on a whim, a getaway from everything loud. from la. from the press. from the pressure. just the two of you and the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling.
you spent the day swimming in clear blue water and sharing shaved ice that melted too fast under the sun. you wore her hoodie over your swimsuit and she called you a thief but didn’t ask for it back. she never does. never did.
now, it’s just the two of you on the beach. the sun is beginning to sink into the ocean, bleeding orange and pink into the horizon. billie sits beside you in the sand, knees pulled up, her chin resting on them. she's quiet. she’s been quiet all day.
you watch her out of the corner of your eye. there’s something in her face that you can’t name. not exactly sadness,but something close. like she’s carrying a weight she can’t set down.
"you're not watching the sunset," you say softly, bumping your shoulder into hers.
she huffs a little, but doesn't look at you. "i’ve seen a lot of sunsets."
you roll your eyes. "yeah, but this one’s with me."
that gets the tiniest smile out of her. barely there, but enough.
she finally turns to you. her hair's wind-blown and messy, cheeks slightly flushed from the sun, freckles dancing across her nose. you think she looks like summer incarnate. and maybe a little like heartbreak.
you reach out and brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. she leans into your touch.
“hey,” you say gently. “what’s going on in your pretty head?”
she hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip. she does that when she's trying not to cry. you know her tells. you know all of them.
she doesn’t answer you. not directly.
instead, she shifts closer until your knees are touching and says, “i’m gonna marry you one day.”
you blink.
“what?”
she doesn’t smile when she says it again, slower this time: “i’m gonna marry you.”
it hits you like a wave.
you can’t breathe for a second. can’t think. she’s said tender things before, called you her person, told you she couldn’t live without you. but this… this is different. this is forever.
you search her face, but there’s something stormy in her eyes. something that doesn’t match the softness of her words.
you take her hand, fingers slotting into hers. she squeezes back immediately, like she needs it. like she might fall apart if you let go.
“okay,” you whisper. “then i’ll marry you back.”
that gets another tiny smile. but her eyes are glassy now, and when she blinks, you think you see tears.
you want to ask her what’s wrong. press her. pull it out of her.
but you don’t.
because part of you already knows.
you don’t know the details, don’t have the names or the timeline, but you can feel it in your gut. the way her mood shifted out of nowhere. the way she’s been checking her phone all day, then hiding the screen from you. the way her laugh sounded hollow at dinner, like she was playing the part of someone carefree.
still, you sit there with her, watching the sun disappear into the ocean, your hands interlaced.
she leans her head on your shoulder, and you feel her body exhale like it’s the first time she’s allowed herself to breathe.
“i don’t deserve you,” she whispers.
you turn toward her sharply. “don’t say that.”
she shakes her head, not meeting your eyes. “i don’t. i just… i wish you knew.”
“knew what?” you ask, voice barely above the wind.
she doesn’t answer. just keeps staring out at the water, like it holds some truth she can’t give you.
you let the silence grow between you for a few beats, then rest your head against hers.
“you don’t have to be perfect,” you say. “you just have to be real with me.”
she laughs, but it’s cracked and bitter. “that’s the problem.”
you don’t know what to do with that. it feels like something important, like a key she’s slipping into your hand without telling you which door it unlocks.
you press your lips to her temple. her skin is warm, and she smells like salt and sunscreen and billie.
“you don’t have to say anything right now,” you whisper. “but when you’re ready… i’ll be here.”
her hand tightens around yours.
and still, she doesn’t speak.
it’s been two years since that sunset in hawaii.
two years of late nights and early mornings, of music and airports and whispered i love you’s when no one else was listening. two years of fighting sometimes, making up always, and building something that felt permanent in a world where nothing ever stayed.
the night she proposes, it’s raining in malibu. she gets down on one knee in the sand and asks if she can love you for the rest of her life.
you say yes.
always, yes.
you believe her.
you believe every word she said.
and the night before your wedding, you still believe her when she kisses your forehead and says she’s just going to the studio. her lips are soft, lingering for a second too long, like she's stalling, and her eyes are tired but calm. you smile up at her from the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket, heart swelling with the kind of hope that feels too big to hold.
“don’t stay too late,” you whisper, and she promises, “i won’t.”
you believe her.
you believe her even when midnight turns to one, and one becomes two, and the shadows stretch long and thin across the living room walls. the candles you lit for no reason but comfort have long since burned out. your phone screen glows with unread messages you never sent.
you still believe her when you lie down on her side of the bed because it smells more like her, vanilla and musk, sharp and clean.
you believe her until it’s 3:30 a.m., and the lock hasn’t turned, and the hallway is still empty, and the silence is starting to feel like a warning. your eyes are blurry from not blinking enough. your body is exhausted, but your heart is wide awake.
and then her ipad lights up on the dresser.
a name you don’t recognize.
not a contact. just a first name. just lowercase letters and a red heart next to them.
the message is short. casual.
“same time next week?”
you don’t move.
you just stare at it, light burning your retinas, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.
the clock ticks.
and for the first time, you stop believing her.
you read it again.
and again.
and when she finally comes home, twenty minutes too late, hair tousled and jacket half-off her shoulder, like she was in a rush to look undone, she freezes the second she sees you.
you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, still in your robe, the light from her iPad glowing like a wound between your hands.
her mouth opens. her voice, hoarse, small, breaks the stillness like a match in a gas leak.
“i can explain.”
and maybe once, you would’ve let her.
but not now.
not after three missed calls.
not after the ache of watching that message bubble appear and disappear and appear again.
not after everything you sacrificed to believe in her.
you don't say a word.
you set the ipad down. quietly. like it’s made of glass.
and you get up and walk away.
because nothing she could say would ever make this right.
not the vows you spent months writing but never read aloud.
not the wedding that never happens.
not the dress still hanging in the corner of the room, ghost-white, untouched.
not the way her sobs, syncopated, ragged, pleading, echo off the walls long after you’ve locked the bathroom door and collapsed to the cold tile floor.
you believed her.
and you were wrong.
because love doesn’t always make people good.
and sometimes, even the softest hearts learn to close.
you sit with your back against the bathroom wall, knees pulled to your chest. the tile is cold against your spine, unforgiving. sterile. like a hospital room. like a morgue.
your hands tremble in your lap, useless.
you don’t cry. not right away.
grief is too patient for that.
it wants you to notice everything first.
so you stare at the grout lines between the floor tiles.
at the edge of the bath mat, frayed from her stepping on it every morning.
at the sleeve of your robe where it bunches at your wrist. she used to kiss that spot. said you looked prettiest in the mornings. said a lot of things.
there’s a ringing in your ears. sharp. relentless.
like the aftermath of an explosion, except no one heard the blast but you.
outside, she’s falling apart.
you can hear it.
the sobs that start with a breath and end with a choke.
the way she whispers your name like it’ll summon you. like prayer.
like a confession.
and maybe hours ago, it would’ve cracked you open.
but now?
now it feels like someone else’s storm.
your eyes land on your ring.
your fingers, without thinking, move to touch it. the metal feels heavier tonight. colder. like it knows what happened.
you twist it slowly.
once.
twice.
then you slide it off.
not in anger. not in rage.
just… quietly.
and you place it on the edge of the sink with both hands like you’re setting down a memory.
you don’t scream.
you don’t throw anything.
you don’t break.
you simply stop.
when you finally open the door, the house feels like it's holding its breath.
she’s sitting on the living room floor, right where she must’ve fallen. legs pulled up, arms hugging herself so tightly it looks like she’s trying to disappear inside her own skin. her cheeks are blotchy. her mascara is streaked in uneven rivers. she looks like she hasn’t taken a full breath since she walked in and saw you holding the truth.
when she looks up, it’s like she expects mercy.
but you have nothing left to give.
her voice is shattered. raw.
“i thought i could handle it. all of it. the pressure. the expectations. being someone you could rely on. i thought… if i could just feel something else for a second, it would go away.”
you stand there, watching her fold in on herself, and what rises in your chest isn’t rage.
it’s something worse.
pity.
not forgiveness. not sympathy. just the hollow ache of realizing the person you would’ve given your life to… couldn’t even stay loyal for one night.
you walk forward. slow. deliberate. you sit across from her on the floor. your knees nearly touch. she flinches at the closeness. maybe she expected you to scream. to leave. to stop loving her.
maybe she doesn’t know that you already did.
“what did you feel, billie?” you ask softly. “did it fix you? did it make you less afraid?”
she opens her mouth. nothing comes out.
you tilt your head, eyes burning, not with tears, but with truth.
“was i too real?”
a whisper now.
“too much of a promise you didn’t know how to keep?”
her whole face crumples.
you almost reach for her.
you don’t.
instead, you say what you didn’t know you had the strength to say:
“i would’ve loved you through anything. god, i did. but that’s not the question anymore, is it?”
she doesn’t answer.
she just cries harder.
as if tears could fix what choice destroyed.
you stare at her like she’s already gone. like you’re memorizing the end of the story.
"i don’t hate you," you whisper, barely audible. "but i can’t do this. i won’t."
and then you stand.
she doesn’t stop you.
maybe she knows she can’tmaybe she knows that what she broke wasn't just your heart—it was the part of you that believed in forever.
you go into the bedroom. it smells like her. everything does. every drawer you open. every shirt you touch. it’s like she’s trying to haunt you before you’ve even left.
you pack slowly. deliberately. like if you don’t focus on folding every corner, you’ll fall apart.
you don’t touch the dress.
you don’t even look at it.
when the suitcase zips closed, it sounds like a door slamming shut.
the hallway outside your apartment feels like another world. too bright. too quiet. no one else knows the life you just left behind. no one knows you're walking out of what was supposed to be your future.
you don’t take the elevator.
you need the stairs.
need the climb.
need the breathlessness.
you need to feel the weight of every single step it takes to leave her behind.
when you push open the door to the street, dawn is just bleeding into the sky. soft pinks and oranges. the world looks like it’s beginning.
and you feel like you’re ending.
your phone vibrates in your pocket.
you don’t check it.
you already know what it says.
please don’t go.
please come back.
please let this be fixable.
but it’s not. not anymore.
because love that’s real doesn’t lie.
doesn’t cheat.
doesn’t come home at 3:30 a.m. and ask for grace without offering truth.
you hail a car. the driver asks where you’re headed.
you pause. for the first time all night, you breathe.
“anywhere but here.”
you hear her everywhere.
in the weeks that follow, it’s like the universe decides to become cruel. everything becomes her voice, her song, her name, said in passing, or echoing from open car windows, or bleeding out of café speakers like the world’s in on some inside joke you weren’t told.
at first, it’s a dull ache. background noise. white static at the edges of your day.
but then it’s worse.
her name pops up on someone’s instagram story.
you scroll too fast and your thumb hits the volume button — suddenly her laugh is in your lap, in your hands, and your heart lurches like it still belongs to her.
you throw your phone across the bed and stare at the ceiling for an hour. your chest rising in shallow breaths. your hands gripping the sheets like you’re still trying to hold her down beside you.
you go days without leaving the apartment.
your friend tries her best. brings food. leaves water bottles around like you’re a ghost she’s trying to keep hydrated. you nod, and smile when you remember to. you say “i’m okay” more times than it feels real.
but you're not.
because nothing about this makes you feel okay.
one day, you’re in line at the grocery store, holding a box of cereal and oat milk like that’s all it takes to stay alive. you're barely functioning, sleep-deprived, wearing sunglasses inside because your eyes give you away too easily now.
you turn the corner, and nearly walk right into her.
your body freezes before your brain catches up.
she’s standing ten feet from you, next to the apples, hair pulled back into a loose bun, hoodie too big, headphones around her neck like always. she looks exactly the same, and completely different.
she doesn’t see you at first. she’s staring down at a green apple in her hand, thumb running slowly across the skin. for a second, something tightens in your chest, a memory so sharp it cuts before you can stop it:
her sitting on the kitchen counter, biting into an apple and grinning, juice running down her wrist.
“you always make that face like it’s too loud,” she laughed once. “just eat the damn thing.”
your stomach flips.
you take a step back, too quickly. the cereal box almost slips from your hands.
and then she looks up.
and you swear time stutters.
her eyes land on you.
and for a breath, just a single breath, everything in the world holds still.
you can’t move.
can’t speak.
can’t do anything but stand there, your ribs caught in a vise.
her lips part like she might say your name.
but she doesn’t.
she just blinks.
adjusts her headphones.
and turns away.
like you’re no one.
like you’re air.
like she didn’t once trace the lines of your spine with her fingertips while whispering i’ve never loved anyone like this before.
you stand there for a long time.
too long.
long enough for the woman behind you in line to sigh and mutter something under her breath. long enough for your fingers to go numb from how tightly you’re clutching the milk.
you make it to the checkout somehow. your voice cracks when you say “debit.” the cashier doesn’t look at you twice. she doesn’t know that your whole world just ended again, right between produce and self-checkout.
you walk home in silence, plastic bag swinging limply at your side. you don’t cry.
you’re too tired to cry.
later that night, lying on your side of a bed that now feels too wide, you whisper into the dark:
“how can you look at me like that?”
your voice doesn’t echo.
no one answers.
because she did.
because she looked at you and pretended you were no one.
like you hadn’t held each other in the quietest hours of the night.
like you hadn’t learned every inch of her skin by heart.
like you hadn’t given her every version of love you had, and then some.
you wonder how two people can go from forever to strangers.
and you wonder why the world keeps turning like it didn’t just lose something sacred.
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