The Artist / Billie Eilish

Chapter 51

No one's POV

As the tour continued, everybody involved seemed to get a little more stressed with the process. Whatever their role, however they were involved, the over-a-year long tour was starting to take its toll on everyone.

Billie was getting unspeakably popular, on both the charts and in person, and everyday was so demanding for her that anyone who was close to the girl could see how run-down she was starting to get. She just wouldn't admit it, confess, so nobody thought it was necessary to talk about.

One person, however, could see right through her brave facade. Whilst everyone else could see the big, glaring stage productions or the hypnotising, immersive show that Billie threw herself into night after night, one person could see the increasing bags under the girl's eyes, or the slowly increasing weight added to the tug of her smile.

And it worried her.

What worried her the most was the thought of this slow deterioration of the world's most in-demand pop star being her fault. She knew she couldn't just go running back to the green-haired sensation, because - after all - she was in the wrong, and it was the right thing to do.

So, for now, she just let Billie do what she did best and let her deal with it on her own; but that didn't stop her from keeping an eye on the girl and following her out of the room from time to time when she suspected her to be struggling a little more that day.

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Billie's POV

All expression fell from my face as I slouched in front of the harshly-lit bathroom mirror.

We were in another hotel, another random ass city, another arena full of people.

My people. My babies.

I had to remember what this was all about, what it's all for. I know it's for them; I know they're here with me, that we're connected through something more powerful than the music.

But, right now... It's hard to feel it. I find myself tugging at my end of the connection, feeling it weak and limp. And unrequited.

And I know it's not and that's what makes me so fucking furious with myself. I know they're still there, it's just so hard to feel them through interviews and signings and record deals and recording and replaying and rehearsing and game shows and special appearances and talk shows and performances and special guest starring and noise and noise and noise.

I'm drowning in it. I'm drowning in it and I don't remember how to fucking swim and nobody's even noticed.

If I'm behind honest, I... I thought someone might. Anyone.

It's not hard to see that I'm spiralling, and I thought maybe, just maybe, if I stopped using concealer under my eyes and didn't fake my smile as much and didn't get out of bed for hours after I was supposed to, that... I don't know. That someone would notice.

Is that selfish?

I don't know.

Sighing, I rested my elbows on the counter in front of me, sliding my hands into my hair and continuing to lock eyes with the stranger in the mirror.

This wasn't me.

This was some kind of corporate machine. The one on the radio, the one on the Ellen show - the one with bloodshot eyes and messy hair and a smile that looks the same but feels so different.

I have a weight in my chest, now, everywhere I go, and I don't know how to get rid of it.

I'm so, so grateful for everything that's happened, everything I've built from nothing. I'm so, so happy that millions of people around the world have someone to confide in, someone to look up to, someone to listen to. If I give anyone at all even a drop of reassurance that you can claw yourself through what feels like inevitable failure, then that's the only reason I need to keep going.