Chapter 2

(Harper never meant to reply. It was just a voicemail from an unknown number at 3:17 AM,tired words, quiet confessions, nothing important. But night after night, the messages kept coming, and so did her replies.)

Harper didn’t think much of the first voicemail.

It was just another notification at first glance.

Unknown number.

A voice message.

She almost ignored it.

Almost.

But something about the timing made her pause, 3:17 AM, her phone lighting up the dark of her bedroom like it had something important to say.

She frowned slightly, sitting up.

Then pressed play.

At first, there was only silence.

Not empty silence.

The kind that felt like someone holding a phone too close to their chest without knowing they were recording yet.

Then a breath.

Soft.

Tired.

And a voice followed.

“…I don’t even know why I’m saying this out loud.”

Harper blinked.

The voice was familiar in a way she couldn’t immediately place. Not someone she knew personally. But not unfamiliar either. Something buried in the edges of memory, like a song you’d heard too many times in passing.

There was a long pause in the recording.

Then a quiet laugh that didn’t really sound like humor.

“It’s just… weird, you know? One second everything’s loud and everyone wants something from you, and then it stops, and you’re just standing there like”

A small exhale.

“Like you don’t exist unless someone’s looking at you.”

The message ended there.

No introduction.

No name.

Just… gone.

Harper stared at her screen for a moment longer than she should have.

Then she locked her phone.

Rolled over.

Tried to forget it.

But sleep didn’t come easily after that.

The second message came the next night.

Same number.

2:48 AM.

Harper hesitated this time before opening it.

Pressed play.

“…I deleted that last one, by the way.”

A pause.

Then another soft breath.

“Not that it matters. I guess it still exists somewhere.”

Silence again.

Then quieter, almost like she wasn’t sure she meant to say it out loud:

“I don’t know who you are, but I’m sorry if you listened to that.”

A faint rustle in the background.

“I don’t usually talk like that.”

A beat.

“Actually, I don’t usually talk at all when I’m supposed to.”

The message cut off abruptly.

Harper sat there for a long time after it ended.

Phone still in her hand.

Something about it didn’t feel like spam.

Or mistake.

It felt… personal.

Which was ridiculous.

Because it wasn’t meant for her.

Still, before she could think too much about it, her thumb moved on its own.

She opened the reply box.

Typed:

You probably sent this to the wrong person.

Then stared at it.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Are you okay?

Paused.

Deleted that too.

Finally, she sent something simpler.

Wrong number.

She didn’t expect anything back.

Not really.

The reply came eleven minutes later.

oh. sorry.

That was it.

Just that.

Harper stared at it.

Then, against every rational instinct she had, she typed again.

It’s fine. it happens.

A minute passed.

Then:

you listened to it?

Harper hesitated.

Then replied:

yeah.

A longer pause this time.

Almost five minutes.

Then:

that’s embarrassing.

Harper almost smiled.

Almost.

She typed:

it wasn’t weird. just… sad.

There was no response for a while.

She thought it ended there.

But then,

yeah.

it’s been a weird week.

Harper stared at the screen longer than she meant to.

Then:

want to talk about it?

She immediately regretted sending it.

Too forward.

Too strange.

Too much.

But the typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Finally:

not really sure i’m supposed to talk about it to a stranger.

Harper replied:

you already did.

A pause.

Then:

fair.

After that, it didn’t stop.

Not immediately.

Not dramatically.

It just… continued.

Messages at odd hours.

Voicemails that were shorter now. Less guarded.

Sometimes just:

i’m tired.

Sometimes:

do you ever feel like you’re watching your own life instead of living it?

Harper always replied.

Not always with answers.

Sometimes just:

yeah.

Or:

yeah, I get that.

And somehow that was enough.

On the fourth night, the voicemail came with faint background noise, like wind outside, or a quiet street.

“…I don’t know why I keep sending these,” the voice said.

It paused.

Then, softer:

“But it’s easier when it feels like someone’s there.”

Harper swallowed slightly.

She didn’t reply immediately this time.

She just listened again.

And again.

Then finally typed:

I’m here.

Sent it before she could overthink it.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Then disappeared.

Then:

that’s a weird thing to say to someone you don’t know.

Harper hesitated.

you started it.

A beat.

yeah.

I guess I did.

Harper didn’t know when it stopped feeling like a mistake.

Or when the voice stopped feeling like a stranger.

But somewhere between the messages and the silence and the strange comfort of someone on the other side of a screen at 3 AM,

It changed.

Not loudly.

Not clearly.

Just enough that when the next voicemail came, Harper didn’t think wrong number anymore.

She thought:

her.

It stopped feeling like coincidence after a while.

Harper couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment it shifted.

It just… did.

The messages kept coming.

Not every night anymore, but often enough that she started checking her phone before sleep without thinking. Often enough that silence started to feel like absence instead of peace.

The voice never asked for anything complicated.

It didn’t try to be anything other than what it was.

Tired. Honest. Unstable in the quiet way people got when they were used to being surrounded by noise and still somehow felt alone.

Some nights it was just:

i can’t sleep.

Other nights:

do you ever feel like you’re only real when you’re useful to people?

Harper always answered.

At first carefully.

Then more openly.

Then, eventually, without hesitation.

Because somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like talking to a stranger.

It started feeling like talking to someone who already understood the parts she didn’t usually say out loud.

And that scared her more than she admitted.

One night, the voice message came later than usual.

4:06 AM.

Harper was already half asleep when it lit up her screen.

She almost ignored it.

Almost.

But she didn’t anymore.

She pressed play.

There was a long silence first.

Longer than usual.

Then a shaky breath.

“…I think I’m doing that thing again.”

Harper sat up slightly.

The voice sounded different tonight.

Heavier.

Not dramatic.

Just… close to breaking.

“I keep acting like I’m fine until I’m not. And then I don’t know how to fix it without disappearing for a while.”

A pause.

Then softer:

“I hate that I disappear. I just don’t know how to stay sometimes.”

Harper’s chest tightened in a way she didn’t fully understand anymore.

She typed immediately.

you don’t have to disappear to rest.

No response came right away.

She waited.

Seconds turned into minutes.

Then finally.

you make it sound simple.

Harper stared at it.

Then:

it isn’t. but you deserve it anyway.

A longer pause this time.

Then:

you always say things like you actually mean them.

Harper swallowed.

Didn’t reply immediately.

Because she did mean them.

More than she probably should for someone she had never seen.

It happened slowly after that.

The voice started opening up differently.

Not just exhaustion.

But pieces of a life.

Pressure.

Expectations.

People always wanting something more.

Never enough silence to think clearly.

Harper told her things too.

About feeling stuck.

About nights that felt too long.

About wanting to be someone she could recognize in the mirror.

They never asked names.

Never pushed identities.

It became something almost sacred in its anonymity.

Two lives crossing without labels.

Just truth.

Raw and unfiltered.

But then came the night that changed everything.

It started like the others.

A voicemail.

Except this one didn’t sound like it was meant for comfort.

It sounded like panic held too tightly.

“…I can’t keep doing this like it doesn’t affect me,” the voice said.

A pause.

Then quieter:

“I love them. I do. I just… I don’t think I know where I end and everything else begins anymore.”

Harper listened twice.

who are you talking about?

A long pause.

Longer than usual.

Then:

everyone.

Harper frowned slightly.

that doesn’t really answer anything.

No response.

Then another message came instead.

can i ask you something?

Harper hesitated.

sure.

A few seconds.

do you ever feel like if people knew the real you, they’d stop caring?

Harper stared at that for a long time.

Then replied:

yeah.

but the right people don’t leave.

A pause.

Then:

what if i don’t have the right people?

Harper’s fingers hovered.

Then:

then maybe you’re just talking to the wrong ones.

Silence.

Longer this time.

Then,

you’re not like them.

Harper frowned slightly.

like who?

No reply for a moment.

Then:

everyone i know.

Something about that message felt heavier than the others.

Like it wasn’t just emotional anymore.

Like it was… dangerous in a quiet way.

Harper typed slowly:

you don’t know everyone i know.

A pause.

Then,

no.

but i know you.

Her stomach dropped slightly.

She didn’t understand why.

But her hands went cold anyway.

you don’t even know my name, she replied.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Then disappeared.

Then came back.

Longer pause.

Finally:

that’s the thing.

neither do i know mine when i’m talking to you.

Harper blinked.

Something about that felt like the edge of a cliff.

She typed:

what does that mean?

No answer for almost a full minute.

Then:

it means this is probably going to sound really stupid.

Harper’s heart slowed.

Then:

try me.

A pause.

my name is Billie Eilish.

The world didn’t change.

But something in Harper did.

She just stared at the screen.

At the name.

At the weight of it.

Not fully understanding.

Not fully believing.

Then her phone vibrated again.

Another message came in immediately after.

fuck. I shouldn’t have said that.

Harper’s breath caught slightly.

Because now everything clicked.

The timing.

The exhaustion.

The way the world never felt fully present in her messages.

The way she talked about noise like it was a constant pressure.

Harper typed slowly.

The billie eilish?

Three dots appeared instantly.

This time they didn’t disappear.

They stayed.

Longer than ever before.

Then:

yeah.

Harper sat completely still.

The room around her suddenly felt too quiet.

Too normal.

Too unreal.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t know what to say.

Because the voice she had been talking to at 3 AM.

The one she had comforted, argued with, understood,

Was not a stranger anymore.

It was someone the world already knew.

And somehow, that made it feel like she was the one who didn’t exist anymore.

Harper didn’t move.

Not at first.

Her phone was still in her hand, slightly warm from how tightly she was holding it, but she wasn’t really looking at the screen anymore.

Just… the name.

Billie.

It didn’t make sense in the space her mind tried to put it in.

People didn’t just become someone like that in the middle of 3 AM conversations about exhaustion and identity and silence.

That wasn’t how reality worked.

She typed slowly.

that’s not funny.

A pause.

Then:

It’s not a joke.

Harper blinked.

Her chest tightened slightly, irritation mixing with something she couldn’t name yet.

okay, she typed. then who are you really?

A few seconds.

Then,

I told you.

Harper let out a short, disbelieving breath through her nose.

no you didn’t.

Another pause.

Longer this time.

Then:

billie eilish.

Harper stared at it.

Then actually laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was ridiculous.

She sat up in bed fully now, switching the lamp on, suddenly too aware of how normal her room looked compared to what she was reading.

right, she typed. and i’m the queen of england.

A beat.

Then:

you don’t believe me.

Harper didn’t even hesitate.

no.

The reply came almost instantly.

okay.

Just that.

No argument.

No defence.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because fake people always tried harder.

Harper frowned slightly.

if you’re going to pretend, at least pick something believable.

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then came back again.

A longer pause this time.

Then:

what would make it believable?

Harper stared at the question.

Then rolled her eyes slightly.

anything other than “i’m billie eilish.”

A pause.

what if i prove it?

Harper stopped.

That felt… different.

Less playful.

More deliberate.

how? she typed.

No response for a few seconds.

Then:

answer your phone.

Harper froze.

Her eyes dropped to the top of her screen.

Unknown number.

Incoming FaceTime.

Her heart did something strange.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Just… wrong.

She stared at it for a full three seconds.

Then scoffed under her breath.

“Yeah, right.”

Still, her finger hovered.

Because nobody went this far for a joke.

The screen kept ringing.

And ringing.

And something about the persistence started to feel less like a prank and more like something else entirely.

Finally….

She accepted.

The screen flipped.

For half a second, all she saw was darkness.

Then movement.

A shaky adjustment.

And then,

A face.

Real.

Not filtered.

Not staged.

Not edited.

Just a girl sitting somewhere dimly lit, hair slightly messy, eyes a little tired like she hadn’t been sleeping properly for a long time.

And she looked directly into the camera like she had been doing it for years.

Harper forgot how to breathe properly.

“…hi,” the girl said softly.

Her voice was the same.

But now it came through real sound instead of recordings.

Harper just stared.

No words.

No reaction.

Just complete stillness.

The girl on the screen blinked once.

Then a small, almost cautious expression.

“okay,” she said quietly. “you’re not talking.”

Harper swallowed.

Then finally managed:

“…this is fake.”

A pause.

The girl tilted her head slightly.

“yeah, i figured you might say that.”

Harper shook her head immediately.

“No, like, this is actually impossible.”

A small breath of a laugh came through the speaker.

“i get that a lot.”

Harper leaned forward slightly, squinting at the screen like that would somehow reveal a trick.

“people don’t just FaceTime strangers at..” she glanced at the clock, “..3:42 in the morning.”

“you do if you’ve been talking to them for weeks,” the girl replied simply.

That made Harper freeze again.

Because that part…

No one else knew that.

Not unless…

Her mind tried to reject it again immediately.

Still impossible.

Still not real.

She shook her head slightly.

“No,” she said again, softer this time. “No, this is… some kind of deepfake or something. It has to be.”

The girl on the screen didn’t look offended.

If anything, she looked tired in a familiar way.

Like she expected disbelief.

She exhaled gently.

“okay,” she said. “what would you need to believe me?”

Harper opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Then frowned.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

A pause.

Then the girl reached slightly off screen.

There was faint movement.

Background noise.

Then she looked back.

“i’m not good at proving things,” she said. “i’m better at… just being real.”

Harper’s chest tightened again.

Because that sounded exactly like the messages.

Exactly like the voice.

Exactly like the person she had been talking to when no one else existed.

Still,

“It’s not possible,” Harper whispered.

The girl on the screen went quiet for a moment.

Then, softly:

“my name is billie eilish.”

Not louder.

Not dramatic.

Just said like a fact she didn’t know how else to present.

Harper stared.

At her face.

At her eyes.

At the way she didn’t look like she was performing anything at all.

And slowly

Very slowly

The world in Harper’s mind started to crack in places it didn’t want to.

Because if this was fake…

It was the best fake she had ever seen.

And if it wasn’t…

Then everything she thought she understood about the last few weeks—

Collapsed.

Her voice came out smaller than she expected.

“…Billie?”

The girl nodded once.

“yeah.”

A pause.

Then, almost carefully:

“you’re harper, right?”

Harper’s throat tightened.

“…yeah.”

Silence.

Not awkward.

Not empty.

Just real.

Then Billie gave a small, tired half-smile.

“hi,” she said again.

But this time, it didn’t feel like the start of a conversation anymore.

It felt like the moment everything had already changed.