Ghosts of tomorrow
Warnings: child loss, blame of other parent, Jesse Rutherford , drowning, parental guilt.
AUTHORS NOTE : ERM I CRIED WRITING THIS POOR BILLIE. ALSO ITS SO LONG SORRY SORRY.
Tags: @bilsbabyma @bitchesbrokenpromises @emiliesblohsh @kittluzbills
The Los Angeles sun poured through the living room windows, spilling golden light across the couch where Billie sat cross-legged, her two-year-old daughter tucked into her lap. Y/N’s tiny hands were busy patting at Billie’s cheeks, as though inspecting them for flaws, her small voice babbling in half-formed sentences that only Billie seemed to understand.
Billie’s heart swelled with every sound.
She’d always known she would love her child, but she hadn’t been prepared for this — the way Y/N’s giggle could physically ease the ache in her chest, or how just holding her could make the whole world feel manageable. She was her reason for existing. Every tour, every song, every exhausting interview — all of it was for her.
“Can Mama have a kiss?” Billie asked, leaning forward.
Y/N grinned — that gummy, imperfect, perfect grin — and planted an exaggerated kiss on her mother’s lips, then immediately collapsed into a fit of giggles like she’d just done the funniest thing in the world.
Billie laughed, brushing back Y/N’s fine hair. “You’re trouble. You know that?”
Trouble didn’t mean bad. Trouble meant bright, alive, unpredictable. Trouble meant this little girl who insisted on eating grapes one at a time, who demanded “baby shark” before bed every night, who called her blanket “Baba” and refused to let anyone wash it unless she could supervise.
Today was Saturday. Billie had cleared her schedule for the weekend — no studio, no interviews, no appearances. Just her and Y/N. Tomorrow Jesse would take her for the afternoon so Billie could work on some writing. She didn’t like being apart from her daughter for too long, but she and Jesse had worked hard to make co-parenting civil.
Billie glanced at the clock. “Wanna go to the park?”
Y/N gasped like this was the best news she’d ever heard. “Swings!”
That was all the answer Billie needed.
At the park
Billie carried Y/N from the car, letting her little legs dangle while she ran tiny fingers through Billie’s hair. The park was already buzzing — families, strollers, kids squealing down slides. Billie kept her hat pulled low and her sunglasses on, but her focus wasn’t on avoiding attention. It was on the little girl in her arms.
The swings were their thing. Billie would push gently, never too high, because Y/N liked the feeling of the breeze but still wanted Mama close. Every push was followed by that laugh — not just sound, but a burst of pure joy that lodged itself in Billie’s chest.
“Higher?” Billie teased.
Y/N shook her head firmly. “No high. Mama push.”
“Okay, baby.” Billie kept the rhythm steady. Back and forth. Back and forth.
When the swings lost momentum, Billie lifted her out and they wandered toward the pond. They tossed bits of bread to the ducks, Y/N squealing when one swam close enough for her to see its orange feet paddling beneath the surface.
Back at home
Afternoon light slanted into the kitchen as Billie set Y/N in her booster seat. Lunch was peanut butter toast, sliced bananas, and a juice box. Billie sat across from her, sipping coffee, watching her daughter navigate her food with the concentration of a tiny scientist.
“Good?” Billie asked.
Y/N nodded, cheeks puffed full of banana. “Mama eat?”
Billie smiled. “I’ll eat in a sec, baby.”
It struck her — how these small, nothing moments were actually the biggest things. How this simple lunch, this sunlight, this messy-haired toddler with peanut butter on her chin, could be everything.
Later, after Y/N’s nap, they curled on the couch watching “Finding Nemo,” Y/N resting her head on Billie’s chest. Billie absentmindedly stroked her hair, breathing in the faint scent of baby shampoo. She felt warm, safe, whole.
If she had known…
If she had even suspected that this was their last full day together, maybe she would’ve held her tighter. Maybe she wouldn’t have let go at all.
The next morning was warm, the kind of summer morning where even the breeze felt lazy. Billie was up early, making scrambled eggs while Y/N sat on the counter in her oversized Minnie Mouse T-shirt, swinging her little legs.
“Mama, pool?” she asked, pointing toward the backyard where the glint of blue water shimmered under the sun.
Billie smiled. “Not with me today, baby. Daddy’s gonna take you swimming later.”
Y/N’s eyes widened. “Dada pool?”
“Yeah,” Billie said, kissing her forehead. “But you have to be good, okay? Listen to Daddy.”
Jesse was due to pick her up in an hour. Their co-parenting wasn’t perfect, but they made it work. He loved his daughter. Billie trusted him… at least enough to know he’d never purposely put her in harm’s way.
Before the pool
When Jesse arrived, Y/N lit up, bouncing in Billie’s arms until she set her down. She ran to him, squealing, “Dada!” and throwing herself against his legs. Billie’s chest ached a little watching it — not jealousy, but that ache of a mother who wanted to be there for everything.
Billie crouched to Y/N’s level, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Floaties. All the time. Promise?”
“Pwomise,” Y/N said solemnly, holding up her tiny hand like an oath.
Billie kissed her, then kissed her again, lingering just a beat longer than usual. “Love you, baby girl.”
“Wuv you, Mama.”
Those were the last words Billie would ever hear from her.
At the pool
Jesse’s backyard pool was shallow at one end, deep at the other. Y/N loved the shallow side, splashing with her floaties on, paddling toward her father.
“Look at you!” Jesse grinned as she giggled, water droplets catching in her lashes.
It was easy — too easy — to feel safe. The floaties stayed on, and Y/N’s laugh was the soundtrack of the moment. Jesse turned toward the patio table, where his phone buzzed. Just a text. One second. Two.
He turned back — but Y/N wasn’t where she’d been.
The floatie bobbed near the edge of the deep end, empty.
“Y/N?” His voice was sharp now, scanning the water. Then he saw it — a small, still shape beneath the shimmering surface.
His chest went cold.
“NO!”
Jesse dove in, the water a blur around him. He grabbed her, hauling her up, her body limp, head tilted back unnaturally. Water streamed from her hair, her lips already pale.
“Baby, no, no, no—” He laid her on the hot concrete, shaking, and began CPR. His hands pressed into her tiny chest, breaths forced into her lungs. “Come on, sweetheart. Come on.”
But there was no response.
Billie was just pulling into the driveway to drop off a bag Jesse had forgotten when she heard the sirens. Her stomach flipped, a primal warning she didn’t understand until she rounded the corner and saw Jesse kneeling over Y/N’s motionless body.
Everything slowed — the sunlight, the sound of splashing water still dripping from Jesse’s clothes, the paramedics rushing past her. Billie couldn’t breathe.
“What—what happened?!” Her voice cracked, already breaking.
“She—she got out of her floatie—” Jesse’s words were frantic, sobbing. “I only turned away for a second—”
Billie dropped to her knees beside her baby, touching her wet hair. “Y/N, baby, Mama’s here. Mama’s here.
The paramedics moved in, lifting her onto a gurney, pumping her chest, an oxygen mask over her face. Billie tried to follow, but someone’s arms — she didn’t even know whose — held her back.
She screamed. Fought. Cried her daughter’s name over and over as the ambulance doors slammed shut.
At the hospital
Billie’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She stood in the corner of the sterile ER room, watching a team of doctors work on her little girl. Tubes, wires, compressions, the steady voice of a nurse counting out CPR beats.
“Come on, baby,” Billie whispered, her nails digging into her palms. “Please. Please.”
Minutes stretched like hours. Then the flatline.
“No…” Billie’s voice broke. She shook her head violently. “No, no, keep going—”
A doctor looked at her, eyes soft but final. “I’m sorry. We’ve done everything we can.”
The room fell silent except for Billie’s sobs. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed beside the bed, her forehead resting on Y/N’s still hand.
It was cold.
The house was too quiet.
Not just quiet in sound — quiet in presence. That strange, hollow silence that settles in after something has been ripped away. Billie stepped inside, the front door closing behind her with a click that sounded too final.
Her hands were still trembling. She hadn’t stopped shaking since the hospital. Her clothes were damp from where she’d knelt on the pool deck, and she could still smell the faint chlorine on her skin.
Y/N’s shoes were by the door — the tiny white sneakers with the worn-out velcro straps. Billie bent down and picked one up without thinking. The weight of it in her palm was unbearable. She set it back down quickly, like it burned.
The living room
Her eyes fell on the blanket draped over the couch — Baba, the faded yellow one Y/N insisted on taking everywhere. It still held the crumpled shape of the last time she’d been wrapped in it. Billie crossed the room and pulled it to her chest, inhaling deeply. The scent was faint but still there — baby shampoo, sunscreen, and that warm sweetness that was just… Y/N.
She sank onto the couch, clutching the blanket like it could anchor her.
It didn’t.
It just made the reality sharper.
The bedroom
Billie eventually found herself in Y/N’s room without remembering walking there. It was exactly as it had been that morning — the crib pushed against the wall, the stuffed animals lined up along the edge. A half-drunk sippy cup sat on the dresser. Billie stared at it, her chest tight.
Her knees gave out, and she sat on the floor, staring at the crib bars. She could see it so clearly — Y/N standing there in her footie pajamas, hair sticking up, calling “Mama!” until Billie came to get her.
Her hand reached for the crib rail, gripping it until her knuckles whitened. She wanted to climb in, to curl up there and just… stop existing.
The spiral
She tried calling her mom. The moment she heard her mother’s voice, Billie broke, sobbing so hard she couldn’t get words out. All she could say, over and over, was, “She’s gone… she’s gone…”
When she hung up, the silence rushed back in. The absence pressed on her chest like a weight. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t drink. Couldn’t do anything except sit there, rocking slightly, clutching Y/N’s blanket.
The night stretched on endlessly. Every shadow in the house felt wrong. Every creak in the walls reminded her there should be a faint hum of a baby monitor, a sleepy sigh from down the hall.
Instead, there was nothing.
The moment she broke completely
At some point, Billie found herself sitting on the kitchen floor, Y/N’s favorite cup clutched in her hands. It still had a bit of juice in it. She stared at it until the tears blurred her vision, then she pressed it to her lips and drank, as if somehow it would let her taste her baby again.
When she finally crawled into bed, she didn’t turn on the lights. She lay on her side, staring at the dark, clutching the blanket. She whispered Y/N’s name into the empty air until her voice gave out.
Sleep didn’t come. Only the crushing truth:
Tomorrow would come without her daughter in it.
The sky was gray, heavy with clouds that looked ready to spill rain, though none came. It felt like the weather understood — like the world itself was holding its breath.
Billie stood outside the small chapel for a long moment before going in. Her hands were cold despite the warm air. She kept telling herself to breathe, but every inhale caught in her throat.
Inside, the scent of flowers was overwhelming. White lilies, roses, carnations — arrangements everywhere, like they were trying to fill the space with beauty to mask the unbearable truth.
At the front of the room, a tiny white casket rested on a table. Closed.
Billie had been the one to decide that. She couldn’t bear for anyone to see her baby girl like that — not drained of color, not still. Y/N was supposed to be remembered with flushed cheeks from laughing too hard, eyes sparkling, curls bouncing when she ran.
The table
Beside the casket was a table covered in framed photographs. Y/N in the park, grinning with her cheeks smeared in chocolate ice cream. Y/N wearing her floppy sunhat, sitting on Billie’s shoulders. Y/N at the beach, holding a seashell to her ear.
Billie’s eyes landed on one picture in particular — her favorite. Y/N sitting cross-legged in her pajamas, holding “Baba” the blanket, grinning up at the camera with dimples so deep they could trap sunlight.
The sight knocked the breath from Billie’s lungs. Her baby had been so alive. How could that life be gone? How could all that warmth fit inside a box that small?
The service
People filled the rows — family, friends, a few members of her team, neighbors. Billie barely registered them. She sat in the front row, clutching the edge of Y/N’s blanket like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. Jesse sat beside her, his hands clasped, eyes red and swollen.
When the minister spoke, Billie couldn’t listen. The words slid past her ears like they were meant for someone else. “Gone too soon,” “precious light,” “in God’s hands” — none of it mattered. None of it brought Y/N back.
A slideshow played on the screen above the casket. Pictures of Y/N from birth to now, her short life condensed into a few fleeting minutes. Laughter frozen in frames. Billie’s chest ached so hard she thought her ribs might crack.
The goodbye
When it was time to approach the casket, Billie’s legs felt like lead. She moved forward slowly, every step a battle. Standing before it, she laid her palm flat on the smooth white surface.
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Mama loves you, baby girl. More than anything. Always.”
She placed Y/N’s blanket on top, smoothing it gently, her fingers trembling. It felt wrong to leave it, but she couldn’t imagine sending her baby off without it.
As the service ended, Billie stayed seated until the room was nearly empty. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t imagine walking away and leaving her child there.
When she finally stepped outside, the sky broke open, and the rain came — soft at first, then harder, soaking her black dress. She didn’t care. She tilted her head back, letting it wash over her, wishing it could wash away everything else, too.
The days stretched into one another like a slow, endless fog.
Billie stopped answering calls. She didn’t return texts or messages. The world outside her door carried on — laughter, work, normal life — but inside her apartment, time had fractured.
The alarm clock rang each morning, but Billie often let it buzz for hours while she lay tangled in the sheets, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes felt swollen from crying, or maybe from not blinking enough. She didn’t care anymore.
Empty rooms, empty heart
Y/N’s room remained untouched. The crib stood as it had, the stuffed animals lined up, a small pile of clothes folded neatly on the changing table.
Billie avoided going in there. Each time she tried, her breath hitched and tears spilled down unbidden. The weight of the absence pressed so hard she felt like she might suffocate.
Her own bed, once a place of rest, became a prison of memories. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Y/N’s smiling face, heard her tiny voice calling “Mama,” felt the soft press of her hand in hers.
But the silence was louder.
Meals became a forgotten ritual. Sometimes Billie would eat, but often she forgot. The food stayed cold on the counter, untouched. The coffee went cold in her mug. The notes and reminders she left herself were ignored.
She stopped showering regularly. The scent of her own sweat was unfamiliar and unsettling, but she didn’t care.
Friends stopped dropping by, afraid to intrude. Billie didn’t want them there. She didn’t want to explain the unbearable emptiness inside her.
Some days, Billie felt nothing — just numb, hollowed out. Like a ghost wandering through a life that wasn’t hers anymore.
Other days, the anger came in waves. Anger at herself, for not watching Y/N closely enough. Anger at Jesse, though she knew he hadn’t meant it. Anger at the world for being so cruel, so unfair.
She screamed into pillows. She slammed doors. She cried until her throat was raw.
A glimpse of despair
One night, Billie sat on the floor surrounded by Y/N’s things — the tiny shoes, a favorite stuffed bear, the half-finished puzzle that had once been her favorite game.
She picked up a photo from the table beside her, tracing Y/N’s smiling face with trembling fingers.
“I don’t know how to live without you,” she whispered.
The silence was the only answer.
The darkness seemed endless.
Days blurred into nights, and the silence between them grew heavier.
Jesse stood outside Billie’s door, the weight of everything pressing down on him. He had come by more than once, but each time she had turned him away — her eyes vacant, her words sharp and cold.
Today was no different.
Billie sat on the couch, clutching Y/N’s blanket like a lifeline. The door creaked open, and Jesse stepped inside, cautiously.
“We need to talk,” he said quietly.
She didn’t look up. “What’s there to say?” Her voice was brittle, broken.
Jesse swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Billie. I’m sorry for what happened.”
Her head snapped up, eyes blazing with pain and fury. “You’re sorry? You were supposed to watch her! You were supposed to keep her safe! But she’s dead, Jesse. Our baby is dead because you looked away.”
The words cut him deeper than anything else ever could.
The blame
Billie’s tears fell fast, her voice rising. “I trusted you. And now she’s gone.”
Jesse closed his eyes, pain etched into every line of his face. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’ll never forgive myself.”
She shook her head, bitterness lacing her tone. “Sorry doesn’t bring her back.”
He reached out, but she pulled away.
The silence between them
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Jesse’s heart ached to see the woman he cared for drowning in her grief — and shutting him out.
“I want to help,” he said finally. “But you have to let me.”
Billie’s voice was a whisper, haunted and empty. “There’s nothing you can do.”
A fragile hope
Jesse nodded slowly, stepping back. “I’m here when you’re ready.”
As he closed the door, Billie wrapped herself tighter in the blanket, sinking deeper into the cold dark.
She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready.