Fever Dream

Billie

Kalena went back home this morning. She'd been at mine for three day and thought best to make sure Ivana and Armani hadn't burnt the apartment down. I however couldn't get Kalena's story out of my head.

The studio was bathed in that familiar half–light, the glow of control‑room LEDs reflecting on Finneas's thoughtful face. I sat at the keyboard, fingers poised over the keys, but my heart was tangled in a single thought: Kalena—her storm‑tossed past,  the way her laughter always reached into the darkest corners of me.

"Let's hear it," Finneas said, leaning back. "What have you got so far?"

I took a breath, staring at the mic. Then I pressed record and let the words spill out, unpolished but raw:

You were born bluer than a butterfly
Beautiful and so deprived of oxygen
Colder than your father's eyes
He never learned to sympathize with anyone

I breathed.

I don't blame you
But I can't change you
Don't hate you
But we can't save you 

You were born reaching for your mother's hands
Victim of your father's plans to rule the world
Too afraid to step outside
Paranoid and petrified of what you've heard

The words flowing freely. Rembering the story 

But they could say the same 'bout me
I sleep 'bout three hours each night
Means only 21 a week now
Now
And I could say the same 'bout you
Born blameless, grew up famous too
Just a baby born blue now
Now

I don't blame you
But I can't change you
Don't hate you
But we can't save you

Silence followed—thick and reverent. Finneas kept his eyes closed, as though he were absorbing every tremor in my voice.

"That's it," he said finally, voice soft. "That's the heart of it."

I rubbed my eyes, still feeling the pull of her story in my chest. "It's everything she's lived. I wanted the song to hold her pain and her power both."

Finneas opened his eyes. "The imagery's stunning. 'Born bluer than a butterfly'—that's poetic and visceral. Let's build around that. Give it space."

We spent the next two hours layering the track—Finneas on piano, a subtle sub‑bass undercurrent, a delicate synth pad to mimic fragile wings. I sang through multiple takes, refining the lines until they felt like breathing.

When we looped back to the bridge, I added a breathy ad‑lib—my voice fracturing on the final "blue"—and Finneas raised the fader like a magic wand, letting the synth shimmer into silence.

He pressed stop. "Billie, that's haunting."

I exhaled, raw and vulnerable. "It's her story. I just tried to find the words."

Finneas nodded. "Let's call that a scratch demo. We'll polish tomorrow, add harmonies. But don't lose that fragility."

I smiled, the weight in my chest already lifting. "Fragility is where the truth lives."

-

Later, at Kalena's

I walked into Kalena's apartment—Ivana and Armani buzzing around in matching T‑shirts they'd made ("Team Kalena & Billie," topped with a little blue butterfly). Kalena was on the couch, sipping tea, looking tired but radiant.

I handed her my phone. "Blue—my demo. It's for you."

She pressed play, closing her eyes as my voice filled the room. When the first line unfurled—"You were born bluer than a butterfly..."—I watched her lips quiver, tears catching the lamplight.