Chapter 5

(Elodie is hired to film behind-the-scenes footage for a documentary. She expects a glamorous celebrity. Instead, she finds Billie eating cereal on the floor and arguing with a vending machine.)

Elodie had filmed enough musicians to know one thing for certain.

Fame always came with structure.

Assistants. Schedules. Security. Carefully controlled chaos.

So when she stepped backstage for her first day on a major documentary and was immediately handed a lanyard that read CREW – FOLLOW DIRECTOR INSTRUCTIONS, she expected precision.

What she did not expect was confusion.

“Has anyone seen Billie?” someone called out.

A production assistant passed by, not even slowing down.

“Try downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Elodie repeated.

The assistant nodded like it was obvious.

“That’s usually where she ends up.”

Elodie frowned. “Ends up?”

“Don’t overthink it,” the assistant said. “Just… find her.”

And then she was gone.

Elodie stood still for a second, adjusting the strap of her camera.

This was not how she imagined documenting one of the biggest artists in the world.

Still, she followed.

—

The lower level of the arena was quieter.

Less polished.

More real.

Cables lined the floors. Storage doors hummed softly. The air smelled faintly of dust and electricity.

Elodie moved carefully, lens cap still on, listening to distant sounds of rehearsal echoing above her.

Then….

A voice.

Sharp. Offended.

“You’re literally lying.”

She paused.

Silence followed.

“I watched you take it.”

Elodie blinked.

Slowly, she turned the corner.

And stopped.

Billie Eilish was sitting on the floor.

Cross-legged.

A massive bowl of cereal balanced in her lap.

And directly in front of her was a vending machine.

A vending machine she was actively arguing with.

Elodie didn’t move.

Billie didn’t either.

The vending machine remained silent, unbothered.

Billie pointed at it like it had personally betrayed her.

“I put in the money. You took it. That’s theft.”

A pause.

Then she leaned closer.

“Don’t look away now.”

Elodie stared for a moment longer.

Then, against her better judgment, she laughed.

Billie turned instantly.

“Wow.”

Elodie covered her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Billie said, completely serious. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’ve never seen someone argue with a vending machine before.”

Billie narrowed her eyes. “She started it.”

That made Elodie laugh harder.

Something in Billie’s expression shifted-less offended, more curious.

“You’re new.”

Elodie nodded slightly, still trying to compose herself. “Documentary crew.”

Billie tilted her head. “And you’re filming this?”

Elodie glanced down at her camera, still hanging at her side.

Then back at Billie.

“…Yes.”

Billie looked betrayed.

“Great. So my humiliation is now international content.”

“It’s very artistic humiliation.”

“That doesn’t help.”

—

Five minutes later, Elodie was still there.

Mostly because Billie hadn’t moved.

Also because Billie had now committed herself to winning against the vending machine.

She shook it once.

Then immediately checked if anyone saw.

Elodie saw.

Billie noticed.

“Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging,” Elodie said.

“You’re absolutely judging.”

“I’m observing.”

“That’s worse.”

—

Eventually, Billie gave up on the vending machine and sat back down beside her cereal like nothing had happened.

As if this was normal.

As if Elodie hadn’t just walked into a scene that felt completely unreal.

“So,” Billie said, spooning cereal. “You always film people when they’re at their lowest point?”

Elodie adjusted her camera. “Only if they argue with appliances.”

Billie snorted. “Fair.”

A pause.

Then, more quietly…

“You’re not what I expected.”

Elodie glanced at her. “What did you expect?”

“Someone… intense.”

“I am intense.”

Billie looked her up and down.

“You look like you check your camera settings before you breathe.”

Elodie smiled despite herself. “That’s called professionalism.”

“That’s called anxiety.”

Elodie didn’t argue.

That was annoyingly accurate.

—

Over the next few days, Elodie filmed everything.

Rehearsals. Interviews. Crowds. Stage setups. Lighting tests.

The controlled version of Billie Eilish the world was meant to see.

But the moments she kept coming back to weren’t those.

They were the in-between ones.

Billie stealing fries from crew meals when no one was looking.

Billie lying on the floor counting ceiling tiles.

Billie talking to people like she’d known them for years after five minutes.

Billie getting startled by her own reflection and pretending she didn’t.

Billie laughing so hard she bent forward and lost her breath entirely.

And every time Elodie lowered her camera, she realized something irritating.

She wasn’t just documenting anymore.

She was noticing.

—

“Don’t use that footage.”

Elodie didn’t look up from her laptop.

“What footage?”

Billie leaned over her shoulder.

On screen: Billie attempting to toss popcorn into her mouth.

Missing.

Trying again.

Missing again.

Hitting herself in the forehead.

Silence.

Billie straightened slowly.

“…Delete it.”

“No.”

“Elodie.”

“It’s character development.”

“It’s humiliation.”

“It’s honesty.”

Billie groaned and dropped into the seat beside her.

“I don’t like you.”

“You do,” Elodie said calmly.

Billie hesitated.

“…That’s the problem.”

Elodie finally looked at her.

Something in that moment shifted slightly.

Not spoken.

Just felt.

—

By the end of the week, Billie had stopped pretending she wasn’t aware of the camera.

She just stopped caring.

Or maybe she started trusting the person holding it.

That part wasn’t clear yet.

What was clear was this:

She kept finding reasons to be near Elodie.

And Elodie kept not moving away.

—

The arena was empty that night.

Rehearsal had ended hours ago.

The stage lights glowed softly in the distance like a fading heartbeat.

Elodie sat in the lower stands with her camera resting beside her.

Reviewing footage.

Again.

Billie appeared without warning.

She dropped into the seat next to her.

Two rows down.

Then immediately leaned up.

“What are you doing?”

“Working.”

Billie leaned closer. “You always say that.”

“That’s because I’m always doing it.”

Billie hummed.

Then pointed at the screen.

“That’s the popcorn video.”

Elodie didn’t respond.

“You’re obsessed with my downfall.”

“I’m documenting your range.”

Billie leaned back.

“…That sounded fancy.”

“It was meant to.”

Silence settled between them.

Not uncomfortable.

Just full.

—

Billie broke it first.

“Can I ask you something?”

Elodie nodded slightly. “Go ahead.”

Billie stared at the empty arena for a moment.

Then spoke softer.

“What do you see when you look at me?”

Elodie paused.

That question landed differently than the others.

Heavier.

Careful.

She lowered her camera.

Thought about it properly.

Then answered honestly.

“I don’t see who the world thinks you are.”

Billie looked at her now.

“I see someone who notices everything.”

A pause.

“Even when she pretends she doesn’t.”

Billie’s expression shifted slightly.

Less playful now.

More still.

Elodie continued.

“And I see someone who makes people feel comfortable without trying.”

Billie looked away for a second.

Like that one mattered.

Elodie didn’t stop.

“I see someone who laughs first and thinks later.”

A small smile returned to Billie’s face.

“And I see someone who is a lot more careful with people than she pretends to be.”

Silence.

Longer this time.

The kind that didn’t ask to be filled.

—

Billie finally spoke.

“You really pay attention.”

Elodie shrugged lightly. “It’s my job.”

“No,” Billie said quietly.

Then corrected herself.

“…I don’t think it is.”

Elodie looked at her.

Billie met her gaze fully now.

No jokes.

No performance.

Just her.

“I think that’s just you.”

—

For a moment, the arena felt too big.

And somehow also too small.

Elodie forgot about the camera entirely.

Billie forgot about everything else.

Neither moved away.

Neither looked away.

And for the first time since filming began, the documentary didn’t feel like it was about Billie Eilish at all.

It felt like it was about the space between two people who had somehow stopped pretending they were strangers.