@y/n. The name had been popping up for weeks now, liking her posts, leaving sweet comments. Nothing strange, just genuine enthusiasm. The same way Billie herself had been at that age, probably, staring at her favorite singers' pages.

She tapped the profile. A cascade of golden-hour photos, sun-kissed skin, artful spills of laughter caught on camera. Billie scrolled. A video of y/n dancing in a field. A story highlight about painting. A photo of her mid-laugh, eyes squeezed shut, and Billie felt her lips curve without meaning to.

That was when her thumb slipped. The little chat icon opened, a blank message box blinking up at her.

Instead, she typed.

Then she set the phone face-down on the sofa cushion and stared at the ceiling, her heart doing a little nervous flip she hadn't felt in a long time.