Fever Dream

Kalena

There are moments you don't realize are milestones until they're already behind you. And then there are others that feel like they're glowing before they even arrive — humming with the weight of what they might become.

This one felt like the second kind.

It was a Tuesday when Billie asked me. Random, quiet. A slow kind of day where I hadn't even gotten out of my hoodie and she'd been in her studio all afternoon. I'd gone over to her house just before sunset. She opened the door with one earbud still in and a soft, sleepy smile that made my chest ache.

"Hi," she whispered like it was a secret just for me.

I kissed her cheek and stepped inside, my fingers brushing against hers.

We ended up curled up in her bedroom, limbs tangled, her thumb tracing slow circles against my side like she was writing something only I'd ever read. The golden hour hit her window just right, painting her skin in soft amber light. It was too quiet to feel like a setup, too still to expect the question that was coming.

But then she looked at me — that real look, the one that made everything around us disappear — and said softly, "Can I ask you something kind of big?"

My heart skipped.

I nodded.

Her hand moved up to my face, brushing a braid behind my ear. "Will you come to the Grammys with me?"

I blinked.

"The—what?"

"The Grammys," she said, a small laugh slipping out. "As in, you know... the Grammys. Red carpet. Cameras. Industry chaos. My mom crying if I win again."

My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

"You want me to go with you?"

"I want you by my side," she said. "Not just as my plus-one. As my person. If you're ready. Only if you're ready."

The room tilted a little.

Because we'd talked about it — this thing between us being private, not secret. We'd posted little things. A few blurry photos. A story where our hands barely touched. Billie had mentioned me once in a live, calling me "an angel." And my face had never been shown. It was all soft edges and half-reveals.

But this? The Grammys were loud. The Grammys were history books and flashing bulbs and headlines that lived forever.

"I..." I swallowed. "That's a big deal."

"I know," she said. "And I don't want to pressure you. But you've been in my orbit for months now, Kal. And I want the world to know who steadies me."

I stared at her.

This girl with ink-black hair and soft hands. Who wore mismatched socks and talked to her dog like a roommate. Who kissed my cheek when I flinched at loud noises and never once made me feel too much for being sensitive.

"You're not asking me for a statement," I whispered. "You're asking me to stand beside you."

She nodded. "Only if it feels right."

And in that moment, something clicked.

This wasn't about flashing lights or viral moments. This was about her. About us. About how the people who matter don't just love you behind closed doors — they bring you into the light.

So I nodded. Heart racing. Eyes hot.

"Yes," I said. "I'll go with you."

Billie exhaled and smiled, pulling me into her arms so fast we both collapsed back onto the pillows.