Chapter 13

(Melissa ( Mel)  hates celebrities. Billie is determined to prove her wrong. Neither expects healing to become something much more personal.)

Mel didn’t like celebrities. That was the simplest way to put it, though if anyone had asked her why, she could have gone on for hours. In her experience, they smiled too much in public and cared too little in private. They spoke about change while living untouched by the things they claimed to care about. They were polished, curated, untouchable, and somehow always surrounded by people who treated them like they were made of glass. Mel had spent years working with wealthy clients and public figures, and every single time she’d walked away feeling the same thing: disappointment.

So when she was told last-minute that she’d be covering a physical therapy session for a high-profile client, she already expected the worst.

“Her regular therapist canceled,” the receptionist said, flipping through the schedule.

Mel adjusted the strap of her bag. “And I’m the replacement?”

“Temporary.”

“Of course.”

She didn’t even bother hiding the skepticism in her voice.

“Who is it?”

The receptionist glanced up.

“Billie Eilish.”

Mel stopped walking.

“…Seriously?”

The woman nodded like she had just announced the weather.

Mel let out a slow breath.

Of course.

—-

She told herself she wouldn’t judge before meeting her.

She failed within five seconds.

The studio was private and expensive, all clean lines and soft lighting and minimalist furniture that somehow screamed money while pretending not to. Mel hated places like this. They always felt fake.

Then the door opened.

And Billie Eilish walked in.

Oversized hoodie. Loose sweatpants. Hair messy in a way that looked accidental. No makeup. No entourage. No assistant carrying things for her.

And she was limping.

Not dramatically.

Not for attention.

Just enough that Mel immediately noticed.

Billie looked up and smiled politely.

“You’re not my usual therapist.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Mel answered flatly. “She couldn’t make it.”

Billie nodded.

“Okay.”

No complaints.

No attitude.

She sat down on the table like she’d done this a hundred times.

Mel opened the file.

“I’ve read your notes.”

“Cool.”

“Frequent ankle sprains.”

“Unfortunately, yeah.”

“Hypermobility issues.”

“Also yeah.”

Mel finally looked up.

“You’re aware of how preventable most of this is?”

Billie blinked.

Then smiled slightly.

“Wow. First five minutes and you’re already judging me. Impressive.”

“I’m observing.”

Billie laughed softly.

“Same thing. Just fancier wording.”

Mel didn’t answer.

And Billie noticed immediately.

Interesting.

—

The session started normally. Assessments. Movement tests. Resistance exercises. Mel expected impatience. She expected complaints. She expected Billie to act like every other rich client she’d dealt with.

Instead, Billie listened.

Actually listened.

When Mel corrected her posture, she adjusted.

When Mel told her to slow down, she slowed down.

When something hurt, she admitted it.

And somehow that annoyed Mel more because it contradicted everything she’d already decided.

“Tell me if this hurts,” Mel said, adjusting her foot.

“It already does.”

Mel looked up.

Billie shrugged.

“I mean manageable hurt.”

“Be specific.”

Billie thought for a second.

“It feels like someone mildly betrayed me.”

Mel almost smiled.

Almost.

She caught herself.

Billie noticed that too.

“You almost smiled.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

“No.”

Billie grinned.

“Okay, scary therapist.”

—

“You tour like this?” Mel asked later.

“Yeah.”

“With recurring injuries?”

“Yeah.”

“That doesn’t concern you?”

Billie looked down at her ankle.

“It does.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

Billie shrugged.

“Because I care.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It kind of is.”

Mel frowned.

Billie sighed.

“Look, I know it sounds stupid. But I love what I do. I love making music. I love performing. I love seeing people scream lyrics back at me. I love knowing that something I made mattered to somebody.”

She smiled softly.

“And I care about the people who show up.”

Mel stared at her.

There wasn’t arrogance in her voice.

No ego.

Just sincerity.

And somehow that bothered Mel because sincerity wasn’t supposed to fit into the image she’d built.

The rest of the session passed quietly until Billie shifted wrong and immediately winced.

“Stop.”

Billie blinked.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s just…”

“Stop.”

Mel moved closer and adjusted her ankle carefully.

Billie went quiet.

Not because she was offended.

Because she was watching.

Watching how focused Mel became.

Watching how serious she looked.

Watching how she frowned when something hurt.

Not because Billie was famous.

Not because she was Billie Eilish.

Because she was hurt.

And that felt strangely intimate.

“You’re very intense,” Billie said quietly.

“That’s my job.”

“No.”

Mel looked up.

Billie met her eyes.

“That’s just you.”

Something about the way she said it made Mel pause.

—

Weeks passed.

And Billie kept showing up.

Sometimes exhausted.

Sometimes late.

Sometimes quiet.

But always trying.

Always doing the exercises.

Always asking questions.

Always thanking Mel before leaving.

And Mel hated how much she noticed things.

The way Billie hummed under her breath while stretching.

The way she apologized when she was late.

The way she laughed at her own jokes.

The way she always asked, “How’s your day been?” and actually waited for an answer.

Nobody waited for answers anymore.

Not really.

And Mel found herself thinking about her after sessions.

Which was ridiculous.

Professional.

Keep it professional.

Except Billie made that difficult.

—

One afternoon, Billie sat cross-legged on the mat while stretching.

“You know,” she said, “I thought you hated me.”

Mel looked up.

“I didn’t hate you.”

Billie raised an eyebrow.

“You looked at me like I personally invented capitalism.”

Mel snorted before she could stop herself.

Billie gasped dramatically.

“There it is!”

“What?”

“You laughed!”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Mel shook her head.

“You’re impossible.”

Billie smiled.

“And yet you keep scheduling me.”

“That’s because you’re injured.”

“Mhm.”

“And because you need treatment.”

“Mhm.”

“And because this is my job.”

Billie grinned.

“Mhm.”

Mel rolled her eyes.

“Stop saying mhm.”

Billie laughed.

“No.”

And God.

Mel liked that laugh.

Way more than she should.

—

One evening Billie arrived limping worse than usual.

“You pushed it again.”

Billie sighed.

“Rehearsal.”

“You need to stop.”

“I’m trying.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the best I’ve got.”

Mel sat beside her.

“Why don’t you stop altogether?”

Billie looked at her.

Really looked.

“Because I love it.”

“That doesn’t mean you should destroy yourself.”

“I know.”

Silence.

Then Billie smiled sadly.

“You know what people think?”

Mel frowned.

“What?”

“That I don’t know how lucky I am.”

She looked down.

“That I’m spoiled. That I complain too much. That I have everything.”

She laughed softly.

“And maybe some of that’s true.”

Mel stayed quiet.

“But people forget I’m still a person.”

Billie looked up.

“And people either treat me like I’m fragile or like I don’t feel anything.”

Her voice softened.

“Both suck.”

Mel swallowed.

Because suddenly she realized she’d done exactly that.

She’d decided who Billie was before she’d even met her.

And she’d been wrong.

Completely wrong.

“I think,” Mel said quietly, “I owe you an apology.”

Billie blinked.

“For what?”

“For assuming.”

Billie smiled softly.

“That’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It kind of is.”

Mel shook her head.

“No. You deserved better than that.”

Billie stared at her.

Then smiled.

Small.

Warm.

“You know,” she whispered, “you’re different than I thought too.”

“Oh?”

“I thought you hated everyone.”

Mel laughed.

“I don’t hate everyone.”

“Just celebrities?”

“Mostly.”

Billie grinned.

“Good thing I’m just Billie then.”

And for the first time, Mel smiled without stopping herself.

—

Months later.

Things had changed.

Not suddenly.

Not dramatically.

Just slowly.

Until one day Mel realized she knew Billie’s coffee order.

Billie knew how Mel took her tea.

Billie knew when Mel was stressed before she said anything.

Mel knew when Billie was pretending she wasn’t in pain.

And somewhere between appointments and late-night texts and stupid jokes and conversations that lasted long after therapy sessions ended, feelings had become impossible to ignore.

—

Six months later.

Billie wasn’t really a patient anymore.

Not officially.

Her ankle had improved.

Her strength had returned.

But somehow she still found reasons to visit.

And Mel stopped pretending she didn’t know why.

One rainy evening, they sat together on Mel’s couch after dinner, a movie playing neither of them were watching.

Billie had her head resting against Mel’s shoulder.

Mel’s fingers absentmindedly played with the sleeve of Billie’s hoodie.

Neither spoke for a while.

They didn’t need to.

Billie finally whispered.

“You know what’s funny?”

“What?”

“You hated me.”

Mel groaned.

“I did not hate you.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I judged you.”

“Same thing.”

Mel smiled.

“No.”

Billie looked up.

“No?”

“No.”

Mel brushed a strand of hair away from Billie’s face.

“I was wrong.”

Billie smiled softly.

“You know what I thought?”

“What?”

“I thought you were terrifying.”

Mel laughed.

“I am terrifying.”

“You are.”

Billie smiled.

“But you’re also kind.”

Her voice became quieter.

“And patient.”

“And stubborn.”

“And annoying.”

Mel raised an eyebrow.

“Annoying?”

Billie grinned.

“Very.”

They laughed together.

Then Billie grew serious.

“So… this thing.”

“This thing?”

“Us.”

Mel’s heart skipped.

Billie looked nervous.

Actually nervous.

Which somehow made Mel’s chest ache.

“I love you.”

The words came out softly.

Honestly.

No performance.

No audience.

Just Billie.

And Mel forgot how to breathe.

Because she’d felt it for months.

Felt it every time Billie smiled.

Every time she texted her goodnight.

Every time she reached for her hand without thinking.

Every time she looked at her like she mattered.

Mel touched her cheek gently.

“I love you too.”

Billie smiled.

And then she cried.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just quiet tears.

Happy ones.

Relieved ones.

Because for once she wasn’t being loved for being Billie Eilish.

And Mel wasn’t loving an idea.

She loved the girl who hummed while stretching.

Who made terrible jokes.

Who pushed too hard and forgot to rest.

Who cared too much.

Who felt everything.

And Billie loved the woman who challenged her.

Who saw through her.

Who protected her.

Who noticed when she hurt.

Who loved her enough to tell her no.

And sitting there together, wrapped up in each other while rain tapped softly against the windows, neither of them could remember exactly when friendship had become love.

They only knew that somewhere between healing and being healed, they’d found something neither of them had expected.

And neither of them wanted to let it go.