between the lines b.e

Billie hated studio lights.

They were too harsh. Too sterile. Too good at spotlighting the parts of yourself you worked hard to ignore.

She kept her hoodie up in the booth, even though it was borderline suffocating. It helped—contained things. Shrunk the world down to just her and the mic. Made it easier to pretend no one was watching. Even when no one actually was.

The collaboration hadn’t been her idea. But she hadn’t said no either. The label pitched it like a marketing move, but it felt more like a dare. And some part of her—quiet and competitive—liked the idea of going head-to-head with someone who wouldn’t melt just because she walked into the room.

Tatiana Carpenter didn’t melt. Not even close.

From the second Billie saw her, she could tell—Tatiana didn’t hand things over easily. Not her time, not her trust, and definitely not her attention. There was a polish to her, but it wasn’t fake. It was armor. Billie knew the type. Knew the smile that sat just right, the laugh that ended at the throat, the performance that was never called a performance because it was expected.

She’d seen that look before.
Mostly in the mirror.

Which didn’t make it less irritating.

Billie had been watching from the other side of the glass—not listening, not really—until something shifted. Tatiana gripped the mic with both hands, knuckles tight, like it might fall if she let go. Like the moment mattered more than she let on.

She was good. Better than Billie wanted her to be.

Her voice was clean, focused. Her phrasing was sharp in that pop-perfect way, but something about it cracked just enough to hurt. Just enough to be real.

And that pissed Billie off.

Not because she wanted her to fail.
But because she hadn’t expected her to matter.

She hated when she was wrong.

---

That night, the house was quiet.

She lay in bed, hoodie still on, room lit only by the screen of her phone. Finneas was working in the next room, she could hear the muffled bass of a demo being rebuilt from scratch. She should’ve been working, too—but her mind wouldn’t leave the studio.

Wouldn’t leave her.

Tatiana’s voice kept replaying—just one note, the kind that frays at the edges when you’re trying too hard not to feel something. Billie hadn’t even meant to remember it. But it stuck.

She reached for her phone, flipped to messages. Read the last exchange again.

Tatiana: Working on it. You?

Billie: Always.

God.
Too much.

Too honest. Too exposed. The kind of reply that belonged in a verse, not a text thread. She hovered over the message, thumb ready to delete it.

She didn’t.

Instead, she opened Voice Memos. Sat there for a second in the dark, thinking about nothing. Then everything. And hit record.

It’s easier to be cold than to burn.

She didn’t know what it meant yet.
But it felt like something.

And for now, that was enough.