hope you're doing well my love 🤍
okay so i have like one million ideas that i think you'd write them sooooo well but i'm trying to make sense of them so i can put them into words (my brain is a mess sorry)
one scenario i've been thinking about lately tho is billie being like super overwhelmed with everything around her work bc she's exhausting herself with the amount of stuff she's been doing and she doesn't realize it until one day everything just blows up in her face and she has a somewhat breakdown/panic attack (maybe like something specific happens, like, some really mean rumor or a specific exhausting meeting where the outcome isn't what she wanted, but whatever it is, it's something she can't change so that's frustrating her even more)
but thankfully she has her lovingly girlfriend who noticed all of that scalating in real time and was just waiting for b to fall so she could catch her 🥺
you know just soft sad girls in a healthy relationship where they take care of each other and make space for them to lean on each other fully
but also maybe this is a relatively new relationship so reader knows billie might get this overwhelmed but hasn't seen it yet, and billie tries to hide bc she thinks it might be too much too soon but reader doesn't even blink, just naturally takes care of her
you know 🥺 soft soft soft i love soft billie with my whole heart
Under the Weight of It All
hiii my love 🤍 i’m doing really well, thank you for asking. how about you? and omg this idea?? it’s sooo good, you have such a gift for thinking of these soft comforting moments. i’m honestly so excited you sent me this request.
Billie had been running on empty for weeks now, caught in a relentless cycle of work, deadlines, and expectations that never seemed to ease. Every day felt heavier than the last, like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, but never allowed herself a moment to breathe.
But Billie never told you it was too much.
Not once. There had never been a quiet confession pressed into your shoulder in the dark of the night, no hesitant “I don’t think I can do this,” no half-smiled “I need you to take some of the weight.” She carried it all as if it were her duty to hold the entire sky above her head, and she did it with such determined grace that most people never noticed how heavy it must have been.
But you did. You noticed. You saw the strain she kept tucked behind her eyes and the way her hands sometimes curled into fists at her sides when no one was looking, as if she was steadying herself against something no one else could feel.
You thought she believed she had to carry it that way. That it was part of who she was: to meet every expectation, to be the person people relied on, to keep saying yes when it would have been easier, healthier, safer to say not today. Maybe she thought slowing down, even for a moment, would make her less in the eyes of the world. Maybe she thought it would make the ground beneath her feet feel unsteady, that if she wasn’t moving at full speed she would lose her place, her rhythm, her worth.
And perhaps, though she would never admit it, even to herself she thought there wasn’t enough room for that kind of vulnerability between you. Your relationship was still new, still learning the language of each other’s silences and the weight behind each smile. You were still figuring out the edges and the soft spots, how far you could press before the other would retreat. Maybe she worried that if you saw her crack, you’d start searching for the broken pieces instead of holding onto the whole. That if she let you into the darker corners, you’d see something that would make you pull away.
You saw it in the faint shadows under her eyes that no concealer could completely erase, in the way her smile after a meeting or a long day didn’t reach her eyes. Not relief, not pride, just a kind of hollow stillness that came when the lights went off. You saw it in the way she grew quieter in the moments between things, as if those rare pauses weren’t rest at all, but recovery from something she didn’t want to name. You saw it in the restless way her fingers tapped against her thigh or the way her shoulders sometimes sagged when she thought no one was watching.
You didn’t push. You didn’t call it out. You knew her well enough to understand that if you reached too soon, she’d pull away. Not because she didn’t trust you, but because she hadn’t yet given herself permission to let go. So you waited. You waited for the moment when her hands would finally release the sky, when she’d realize she didn’t have to keep it from falling alone.
It had been one of those lazy late afternoons, the kind that practically begged you to stretch out on the couch, let the soft hum of the world fade, and recharge. The sunlight outside had deepened into that warm, molten gold that pools across floors and lingers in corners, the day caught between light and dusk. It would have been perfect for doing nothing at all.
But Billie wasn’t the kind of person who let afternoons like that pass quietly anymore. She was in her home studio instead, the door mostly shut, the low thump of bass seeping faintly into the hall.
The room was dim except for the glow of her computer screens. Three of them, each casting their cool blue light over her face. Narrow slats of sunlight slipped between the half-closed blinds, stretching across the floor in fractured beams. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, turning slow circles before vanishing into the shadowed edges of the room. The smell of faintly stale coffee lingered beneath the sharper scent of her perfume, which clung to the soft hoodie she wore.
You had been in the kitchen, the faint sound of her music in the background, making lemonade from scratch. The scent of fresh citrus still clung to your hands, sharp and clean. You poured two tall glasses, the ice crackling as it met the liquid, condensation immediately forming on the outside.
When you stepped into the doorway of the studio, you stayed quiet for a moment, just watching her. Billie sat at her desk, headphones on, lips slightly parted in concentration. One hand was curled loosely around her mouse, the other braced against the edge of the desk. Her foot tapped an unrelenting rhythm against the floor, the restless pulse of someone whose mind was moving faster than her body could keep up.
It wasn’t the first time you had seen her like this: immersed so deeply in her work that the rest of the world didn’t exist. Usually, it was a good sign: that creative flow she sometimes slipped into, when her whole body leaned toward the music like it was pulling her closer. But today, it wasn’t that. Today, there was no spark of inspiration in the set of her shoulders or the tilt of her head. Today, she was clinging to her work like a lifeline, as if letting go for even a second would make something inside her come undone.
You stepped forward slowly, careful not to startle her, but she still flinched when your shadow crossed her desk. She lifted her head, pulling one side of her headphones down. Her eyes were glassy and slightly red, not from crying, but from hours of staring at the screen. Behind them was that same quiet exhaustion you had been seeing more often lately, the kind that didn’t fade after a night’s sleep.
“hi, baby,” you said softly, your voice lowered without thinking. It wrapped around her like a blanket, gentle and warm.
“hi, my love. I didn’t even hear you come in,” she replied, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I brought you something refreshing,” you said, crossing the room and setting one of the glasses beside her hand before taking a seat on the small stool next to her.
She took it with quiet gratitude, immediately drinking half of it in one go, like she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until that moment. “Ugh, I needed that,” she sighed, and took another long sip.
You only nodded. You knew how she was when she got this absorbed, her own needs slipped to the very bottom of her list. If you didn’t step in, no one would. Sometimes caring for her meant exactly this: putting a drink in her hand, making sure she ate something, giving her a reason to pause even if only for a moment.
“What are you working on?” you asked after a beat.
She tilted her head toward the screen. “Trying to stack these vocals, but they never sound the way I want them to.” There was frustration in her tone, and she brushed her hair back from her face like she could shake the feeling away with the gesture.
“Maybe you need a break,” you suggested, your voice careful, without any sharp edge that might make her defensive.
“I don’t have time for a break right now. But once I’m done here, I’ll take one. Maybe in… an hour.” You didn’t argue, but you both knew she wouldn’t take it.
When she drew her knees up toward her chest to finish the last sip of lemonade, you noticed the faint tremor in her fingers around the glass. It was small, almost invisible but you saw it. Another quiet signal of the stress coiled tight inside her.
You hummed in acknowledgment and stood, slipping out of the room without explanation. When you came back, you carried a cold, damp cloth. Without a word, you placed it gently against the back of her neck, letting your hand rest there for a moment.
“Oh… that’s… really nice,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering closed briefly.
You stayed behind her, your palms settling lightly on her shoulders. At first you applied only the barest pressure, just enough for her to feel your touch. As you felt her body start to loosen beneath your hands, you increased it, your thumbs finding the knots of tension and working them slowly, patiently.
Her breath deepened, a soft, almost imperceptible exhale that told you more than words could have.
“You have an interview tomorrow, right?” you asked, your hands still kneading gently.
She nodded without opening her eyes. “Yeah. And in the afternoon I’ve got that meeting about my new perfume. Oh..and the team wants me to review another video.”
“That’s a lot,” you said simply. There wasn’t anything else to say. You knew she wouldn’t cancel a thing, and you couldn’t take any of it off her plate.
She gave a short laugh, though nothing about it was amused. “Yeah. And it just keeps piling up.”
You didn’t tell her to drop something. You didn’t warn her she was overworking herself, though the urge was strong. You had only been together a few months, not long enough to pretend you knew every corner of her, but long enough to recognize the way she closed herself off when she didn’t want to burden anyone. With Billie, you couldn’t push your way in. She didn’t respond well to that. You had to wait for her to crack the door open herself.
She carried her responsibilities like armor, and even the softest confrontation would feel like pressure. So you swallowed your worry, hiding it behind a small smile. You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder. “I’ll make dinner later. Nothing big, but something warm.”
Her lashes lifted slowly, and she turned just enough to meet your eyes. “That would be amazing.” This time, her smile reached her eyes. Small, unforced. “You’re too good to me.”
“Just the best for you, B,” you murmured, brushing a quick kiss against her lips.
“I’ll do the dishes after,” she offered automatically.
“Not today. I’ve got it. You rest after we eat. You need it.”
She hesitated, clearly about to protest, but let it go. That alone felt like a small victory.
For a while, neither of you moved. The studio was still, no music, no clicking of the mouse just the quiet hum of the equipment and the sound of your breathing. Your fingertips traced the spot between her shoulder blades where you knew she carried the worst of her tension.
She didn’t speak, but you felt it: the small shift in her body, the subtle softening, like something inside her had set itself down, if only for now. It wasn’t enough to take the weight from her entirely. But it was a start. And you would be there, ready to hold her when the day came that she finally let the sky fall.
There was nothing particularly special about today.
Billie had an interview lined up. Nothing new, nothing groundbreaking. Just a scheduled PR spot to promote her upcoming fragrance launch. Twenty minutes of talking, followed by a handful of portraits and some B-roll footage. A routine day for her on paper.
She’d asked you earlier if you wanted to come along. It had been framed like a casual question, but you’d caught the note beneath it. The quiet request. She wanted you there. Maybe it was her way of letting you see more of her world, maybe she just needed you nearby. Probably both.
From the outside, it all looked effortless. To the crew, to the journalists, to anyone passing by, Billie was in her element. She’d done this a hundred times before. It was just another box to tick, another task to slide into her already crowded schedule. They saw the polished version, the one who moved through each segment like clockwork.
For Billie, this wasn’t exciting anymore. It was another obligation stacked on top of all the others. There had been a time when she’d enjoyed it. When interviews were part of the dream, part of the fire that drove her. Now, it was just something she had to do. A piece of the machine.
You could tell, almost instantly, that today was wearing on her. She was tired, more than tired. You watched her push her hair back behind her ears over and over, even though it wasn’t falling forward. You noticed the way she laughed politely during small talk with the team, her lips curving but her eyes never quite catching the light.
Her shoulders told the story most clearly. Every so often, when she thought no one was looking, they would sink, just a fraction, just enough for the tension to bleed through. And while everyone else stayed wrapped in their own roles, you saw it.
The studio was bright, almost aggressively so, but the air carried that sterile chill that clung to large, over-lit rooms. There were at least twenty people scattered across the space. Some with clipboards tucked under their arms, some adjusting cameras and tripods, others holding the particular kind of stillness that came from waiting for something to begin. Every single one of them seemed to wear the same look in their eyes: expectation.
You weren’t officially supposed to be there. You hadn’t been on the call sheet or the crew list, and the only reason you’d gotten in was because Billie wanted you there and Billie had a way of making things happen when she wanted them to. Still, you kept to yourself, tucked into the corner between two towering light stands. It gave you a clear view without putting you in the way, a place where you could quietly exist in her orbit without becoming part of the scene.
From across the room, Billie sat in a low armchair, angled toward the interviewer opposite her. She looked composed in that deliberate way she always did when the cameras were rolling: posture relaxed but not slouched, legs crossed just so, expression open and attentive. But you weren’t listening to the conversation, not really.
Your focus kept drifting to the small tells: the faint furrow in her brow when the interviewer spoke, the way her thumb brushed rhythmically over the edge of her thumbnail, an unconscious metronome for her thoughts. You knew that gesture. It was one she slipped into when her mind was somewhere else entirely.
Someone called out, “Five-minute break!” and the room shifted instantly. The air filled with movement and low chatter as people scattered. Half the crew heading for the coffee table, others retouching makeup or checking equipment settings.
Billie, however, didn’t linger. She stood almost immediately, her movements purposeful but unhurried, her gaze sweeping past everyone until it landed on you. And then she crossed the room. Step after step, slow but direct, threading through cables and crew members until she reached you.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Instead, she stepped right into your space, wrapping her arms around your waist and pressing her head into the curve of your neck. You felt the warm rush of her breath as she exhaled deeply, like she was setting something heavy down, if only for a moment.
Your arms moved around her without thought, one hand resting at the small of her back while the other slid up to the nape of her neck. Your fingers found the soft wisps of baby hairs there, idly brushing them, your touch gentle, grounding. She leaned in just a little more, the weight of her body yielding into yours as though she wanted to forget that she would have to go back to performing soon.
Neither of you spoke. Words would have only thinned the moment. You didn’t need her to tell you she was exhausted, you could feel it in the way her shoulders sloped against your chest, in the faint, slow rhythm of her breath.
And you couldn’t help but wonder: when was the last time Billie had an actual day off? A real day, without cameras, without schedules, without the ever-present pull to be “on” for someone else? You tried to think back, to remember a time and you came up empty. You were willing to bet Billie couldn’t remember either.
The break was over far too soon. Just long enough for her to eat the protein bar you’d slipped into her bag this morning, the one you’d insisted she eat, knowing she wouldn’t otherwise and to take a few sips of water. She kissed your cheek softly, a quick press of gratitude, before crossing back to the chair and settling in again.
The interview resumed smoothly. The questions were familiar: about fragrance notes, about the creative process, about the inspiration behind the launch and Billie handled each one with the easy professionalism of someone who’d been doing this for years. She spoke in that warm, steady voice that could be serious one moment and teasing the next, and more than once she slipped in a quick, playful remark that drew genuine laughter from the interviewer. You watched as their face lit up, charmed without even realizing it. But then again, who could resist Billie when she decided to pull someone into her gravity?
Still, there were things only you noticed. Like the way her hand tightened almost imperceptibly around the microphone when they asked about her next big project. The smallest pause, so slight it wouldn’t register to anyone who didn’t know her before she spoke.
“I’m working on a few things,” she said, her smile slipping easily into place like a well-worn coat, the kind that used to feel warm but had long since lost its lining. “Music, visuals… maybe a tour.”
The words sounded casual, even breezy, but you could hear what wasn’t being said. You could see it in the faint clench of her fingers, in the way her gaze flickered for half a second before returning to the interviewer’s face.
They always wanted more. The industry, the fans, the media. Everyone was hungry, and Billie had spent years learning how to feed that hunger without letting anyone see the toll it took. But she couldn’t say no, not really. Not when she felt she owed so much to the people who believed in her. And somewhere along the way, she’d started forgetting that she owed something to herself, too.
You sat there, silent in your corner, feeling that quiet ache settle into your chest. It was too much. All of it. The constant cycle, the endless giving. And you found yourself hoping, maybe even praying that she would see it before it went too far. That she would recognize the weight she was carrying and choose to set some of it down, before it crushed her completely.
Part of you wanted to confront her about it right there. To say something, anything, that might make her see how hard she was pushing herself. But you knew it wouldn’t work, not with Billie. She built walls not out of malice but out of necessity, and if you tried to push past them too soon, she would retreat even further. You weren’t sure she’d let you in, not on this topic, not yet.
So you stayed quiet, your thoughts heavy but hidden, watching her as she smiled and answered the next question, her charisma filling the room like sunlight that somehow didn’t reach her own skin.
It had been the plan for days that Billie would come over tonight. You’d cook together, eat, and let the evening fade out in the comfortable way only the two of you seemed to manage. To be honest, you both needed it. Not the performative kind of togetherness where the clock kept nudging you forward to the next thing, but the slow, unhurried sort that stitched you back together after weeks that had taken too much.
But somewhere deep down, you’d already known it wasn’t going to happen. Not the way you’d pictured. When your phone buzzed and you saw her name, it only confirmed what you’d been bracing for.
‘I am going to be late, princess.‘
No emoji, no explanation. Just the plain, clipped text. Billie must have been under real pressure tonight. She always tried to soften her messages with a heart or a joke if she could. Still, even stripped down to those few words, it warmed you that she’d made the effort to let you know, to keep you from worrying.
But the message told you enough: It was one of those days.
And lately, it felt like there were only those days.
You’d watched her schedule swell over the past weeks until it felt less like a calendar and more like an endless conveyor belt, carrying her from one demand to the next. Studio sessions running long, interviews stacked back-to-back, brand meetings sandwiched between rehearsals. Every free moment she found, seemed to be immediately claimed by someone else.
And she just wouldn’t let you in, not all the way. Not to the part of her that was fraying at the edges. She gave you smiles and quick reassurances, little snapshots of her life, but never the whole picture.
You were patient. You’d told yourself you understood. But lately, a quiet frustration had been blooming in you. Not the angry, selfish kind, but the ache of watching someone you love wear themselves down without ever admitting they’re running on fumes. You knew that if you brought it up, it might end in resistance, even backlash. But you also knew you couldn’t just keep watching her burn herself out.
So you ate dinner alone. You plated her portion anyway, covering it carefully and sliding it into the still-warm oven. The rest of the night stretched ahead of you, empty except for the quiet hum of the heater and the glow from the living room lamp. You stayed up, half watching some show, half listening for the sound of her key in the lock.
You’d made the room the way you knew she liked it: warm, soft, a little haven from everything outside your walls. A place where she didn’t have to be Billie Eilish or the person everyone else needed her to be. Just Billie. Just yours.
It was a few minutes before midnight when you finally heard the faint click of the door. The lock turned with the key you’d given her only a few weeks ago. A small, deliberate gesture of trust, a quiet way of telling her you were serious about this.
The door closed gently behind her. You heard the soft thump of her shoes being kicked off, the faint rustle as she hung her coat. Then her footsteps, slow but steady, moving toward the strip of light spilling out from the living room.
When she appeared in the doorway, you greeted her softly. “hi, Bill.”
Her mouth lifted into something that might have been meant as a smile, but it fell apart halfway through. Without a word, you opened your arms. She crossed the room in quiet, deliberate steps and folded herself against you.
Up close, the day clung to her. Her hair was a little tangled, pulled loose from whatever style it had started in, and her sweatshirt was creased like she’d been leaning into a desk or chair for hours. The faintest trace of makeup clung under her eyes, blurred at the edges. She smelled faintly of her perfume, but underneath was the sharper scent of the city at night, of cold air and movement and too many hours spent on her feet.
You let your hand travel slowly up and down her back, eventually slipping under the hem of her shirt. Not in any suggestive way, just to ground her, to let your palm rest against her skin and remind her she was here, safe. You felt the ripple of goosebumps rise beneath your fingertips.
After a while, you asked, “hungry?” She shook her head. “Too late. I just want to—” Her stomach growled, cutting her off.
You tilted your head, wondering when she’d last eaten. You didn’t push. You just murmured, “Come on,” and gently steered her toward the kitchen.
The oven light cast a warm glow over the room. You pulled her plate from inside, the air scented faintly with roasted vegetables and garlic. Billie leaned against the counter, watching you with an expression that was halfway between curiosity and exhaustion.
Wiping your hands on a towel, you straightened your posture and slipped into an exaggeratedly formal tone. “Welcome, Miss Eilish, to our exclusive late-night bistro. Tonight’s chef has prepared something truly spectacular, just for you. And by ‘truly spectacular,’ I mean reheated, but made with love.”
That got you a small huff of laughter. Quiet, but real. “Will the chef be joining me for this meal?” she asked, playing along. You raised an eyebrow. “I can check the reservation log… but since you’re our only guest tonight, I suppose arrangements could be made.”
Her lips curved, the tension in her shoulders easing by a fraction. “I like this place already.”
You set the plate down in front of her and slid a fork into her hand. “Your server will now retire to the other side of the table, but of course remains at your disposal for refills.”
This time, her laugh was a little fuller. She shook her head, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear before taking the first bite. You watched her chew slowly, like her body had to remember how to accept food after a long day.
“Mhm,” she said around her mouthful. “Better than good.”
You both lingered in the kitchen, the conversation starting small: how your day had gone, something funny you’d seen on your way home. But as she ate and the edge of her hunger dulled, she began to talk more.
She told you about the shoot that had run late, the meeting she’d been squeezed into afterward, the calls she’d taken in the car between locations. You didn’t miss the way her voice dropped when she admitted she hadn’t seen her bed before 2 a.m. all week.
“It’s just… a lot right now,” she said finally, her fork pushing at the last bite on her plate. You hummed softly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
She hesitated, then added, “I don’t want to dump all of this on you. I mean, we’re still… you know… not that far into this. And I don’t want to be too much, too soon.”
Something in your chest tugged at that. The idea that she thought love had to be portioned out, measured so carefully it didn’t spill. “You’re not too much,” you said quietly, not to argue, but to place the truth between you like something solid she could lean on.
Her gaze flickered up to yours for a second before drifting away again. “I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix me or… carry any of this.”
You reached across the table, brushing your fingertips over the back of her hand. “I don’t want to fix you, baby. I just want you to be okay. And I don’t want to watch you work yourself into the ground.”
Her shoulders rose and fell in a long breath. She didn’t answer right away, but she didn’t pull her hand away either. Something in her face softened, like she was letting herself believe that maybe here, with you, she didn’t have to hold the whole world together.
She didn’t say it outright, but you could hear it between the lines that everything was too much, that she didn’t know when the pace would slow down, that she was scared of what it would mean if it didn’t. And under all of that, the quiet fear that maybe you couldn’t handle seeing her like that.
By the time you finally coaxed her toward bed, her eyes were heavy and her voice had gone quiet. You pulled the blankets over both of you, letting the stillness settle.
And in the dark, as her breathing slowed beside you, you thought, not for the first time, that you would wait as long as it took for her to realize she didn’t have to carry it all alone.
You had known all day that something about Billie felt… off. It wasn’t one specific thing, more like a faint background hum that you could sense without seeing. A tension beneath her skin, something she carried in the way she moved, in the way her eyes darted away a little too quickly when you caught them. She’d been quieter than usual, and when she did speak, her words felt like they were chosen carefully, as if she was editing herself in real time.
You didn’t push. Billie could be private when she wanted to be, and sometimes the best way to get her to open up was simply to make space for her to walk into. So you let the silence be, even though you could feel it thickening between you.
The first thing you really noticed was her phone. Normally, Billie was casual with it. She’d leave it lying on the table face-up, scroll mindlessly through videos with you, even hand it to you to show you something that made her laugh. But tonight, it was different.
The first time she picked it up, she flinched, actually flinched like the vibration against her palm was something sharp. She read whatever was on the screen, and her jaw tensed. Then she set it down again, not in the usual careless drop, but carefully, deliberately, face-down on the couch cushion beside her.
A few minutes later, she picked it up again, unlocked it, stared at it without moving her thumb, and then locked it just as quickly. Her eyes slid away, out the window, into the darkness beyond the glass. You caught the reflection of her face there: far away, somewhere you couldn’t reach.
You wanted to ask. You didn’t. Not yet. Something in her posture told you that if you pushed too soon, she might just retreat entirely. So you stayed quiet, let her keep her little fortress intact, even though the hum in your chest was starting to get louder.
When it was late enough that the air in the room felt heavy, Billie finally reached for her phone again. She didn’t check it this time. Instead, she flipped it over, placed it on the table face-down, and pressed her palm flat against it like she was physically pinning it there. Then, without looking at you, she reached over with her other hand and switched it to silent.
And that’s when you knew. Whatever it was, it had been living in that device all day, maybe longer.
Billie looked at you then, a flicker of eye contact that lasted just long enough for you to see something break open behind her expression and suddenly she was moving, sliding closer to you on the couch until her knee brushed yours.
It was almost imperceptible at first, the way her shoulders began to fold inward, the way her breathing went shallow. Her head dipped, her hair falling forward like a curtain.
You shifted, turning toward her, and that’s when you heard it. The smallest, strangest sound. Not quite a sob, not yet, but a tremor in her throat, a sound of someone trying to hold themselves together and failing.
“Billie…” you said softly, reaching out.
That single word seemed to undo her. She inhaled sharply, but the breath caught halfway up her chest, and then her face was in her hands. Not the careful, composed kind of crying, but the desperate kind, the kind that bends you forward as if your own ribs can’t contain the weight of it.
You pulled her in without thinking, your arms going around her, your palm finding the back of her head. She came into you hard (that sounds so wrong, help😭), as though her body had been waiting for permission to collapse. Her breath was hot against your neck, ragged and uneven.
For a long moment, you just held her. You didn’t ask. You didn’t try to fix anything. You just let her shake against you, feeling every tremor of her shoulders, every unsteady inhale.
When she finally spoke, her voice was muffled against your shirt. “They’re saying I stole it.” You blinked. “Stole what?”
Billie didn’t lift her head. Her fingers curled into the fabric of your sweater like she was holding on for balance. “The campaign,” she said, and you could hear the bitterness laced through the exhaustion. “They’re saying I stole the whole thing. The concept, the design. Like I just… took it.”
Your chest tightened. “Billie…”
She pulled back just enough to look at you, her eyes red and wet but burning with a frustrated heat. “It’s not true. It’s not even…god, it’s so stupid. I’ve been working on it for months. Months. Every detail, every single piece of it… mine. And they’re acting like I just… ripped it from someone else and slapped my name on it.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
You kept your voice soft. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“People online. Some… blog. And now it’s everywhere. I open my phone and it’s just…” She broke off, inhaling sharply through her nose. “It’s people who don’t know me, who don’t know anything about the work, just deciding I’m some fraud.”
Her hands were moving restlessly now: up into her hair, down to rub her face, gripping her own knees. You reached for one and held it, stilling the movement.
“I don’t…” She stopped again, swallowing hard. “I work so fucking hard. And for what? So someone can just twist it into this ugly thing and people believe it? Do you know how” She pressed her lips together like she could physically stop the words from spilling over. “Do you know how humiliating that feels?”
You didn’t answer right away. You just tightened your hold on her hand and let her see that you were still there, still anchored.
Her breathing was starting to pick up now, quick shallow pulls of air that made your own chest ache to watch. Her free hand clutched at the hem of your sweater, like she was bracing against being pulled under.
“Hey, hey,” you murmured, shifting so you were face-to-face. “Look at me.” She did, and her eyes were glassy, wide in that way that told you she was right on the edge of panic.
“You’re here. You’re okay. Breathe with me, alright?”
You exaggerated your own breath. Slow in through the nose, holding it for a beat, then out through the mouth. At first, she just stared at you, like she wasn’t sure she could follow. But then her shoulders lifted as she tried to inhale with you, shaky and uneven. You counted in your head, let her match your pace.
After three or four rounds, the trembling in her hands eased a little. She let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a sob, and then her forehead was pressed to your collarbone.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.
Your throat tightened instantly. “I’m not going anywhere.” You pressed your lips to the side of her head, speaking into her hair. “Not now, not ever.
She stayed there for a long time, her breathing gradually finding a steadier rhythm. When she finally shifted back enough to meet your eyes again, she looked… not fine, but softer. Like the sharpest edges of the panic had dulled.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” she admitted quietly. “It’s so soon. And I thought… I thought maybe it would be too much. That I’d be too much.”
You shook your head slowly, brushing your thumb over the back of her hand. “You’re never too much. Not for me. I want all of it, billie. The good, the bad, the messy. I’m here for all of it.”
Her eyes shone again, but this time it wasn’t from panic, it was something warmer, something like relief. She let out a small, broken laugh and leaned back into you, tucking herself against your side.
“You’re gonna regret saying that,” she murmured, but there was no conviction in it.
“Not a chance,” you said. And for the first time that night, she actually believed you.
You stayed like that for a long time. Her head on your shoulder, your hand tracing slow, steady lines along her back. Neither of you spoke, but you could feel the weight in the air shifting, settling into something less jagged. Her breathing had found its rhythm again, but you could still feel the exhaustion in every inch of her body.
Eventually, you tilted your head slightly so your cheek rested against her hair. “Sweet girl,” you said softly, careful not to break the calm that had finally settled between you.
She hummed in response, the sound low and tired.
“You can’t keep going like this,” you said gently. “Running on empty until you crash… it’s not healthy. And I’m not saying that to make you feel bad. I’m saying it because I don’t want to watch you burn yourself out.”
She let out a faint, humorless laugh. “I don’t exactly have the option to just… stop.”
“Maybe not completely,” you agreed, “but you do have the option to slow down. To say no to things that aren’t essential. To… give yourself room to breathe. And if it feels like too much, you have the option to tell me before you hit the breaking point.”
Her head shifted slightly, just enough for her to glance up at you. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple,” you said. “But it’s necessary. You can’t pour all of yourself into this career you’ve built and then leave nothing for yourself. Or for us.”
For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then she sighed, long and deep, and let her eyes fall shut again. “What would that even look like? Slowing down.”
You hesitated, then said, “It looks like canceling the things that don’t actually need to happen right now. Taking a day or two where your schedule isn’t dictating every breath you take. Eating real meals. Sleeping more than four hours. And maybe…” Your fingers brushed lightly along her arm. “Maybe letting someone else carry some of it with you.”
Billie was quiet for a while, so long you thought she might have slipped into a half-sleep. But then she whispered, “I could cancel the shoot on Tuesday.”
You felt a small flicker of relief. “That’s a start.”
“And the… thing in New York next week. I could push it back.”
When she finally looked up at you again, there was still fatigue in her eyes, but there was something else too. A cautious kind of resolve. “If I start to feel like it’s too much… I’ll tell you. Even if it’s ugly. Even if I’m not sure you want to hear it.”
“I’ll always want to hear it,” you said. “Always.”
She studied you for a long moment, like she was searching for any sign you might be saying it just to comfort her. Whatever she found seemed to satisfy her, because she finally nodded and leaned back into you, her hand finding yours and holding it tightly.
“Okay,” you echoed, pressing a slow kiss into her hair.
And for the first time in what felt like days, the weight she’d been carrying didn’t feel like it belonged to her alone.
Thanks for reading!! I really hope you enjoyed it and a small reminder from me: please don‘t overwork yourself, take a break, eat and drink enough. You are more important than any task you have to do. I am proud of you, so please look after yourself🤍
