Yearn For Agony // Billie Eilish

XXIV

Leilani

As of lately, I've been spending a lot of time at Billie's. She's been my emotional support person during this difficult transition and has given me a shoulder to cry on when things get particularly hard.

I wake up next to her and I go to sleep next to her.

As lovely as that sounds, these past few weeks haven't been sunshine and rainbows. Heavy showers and thunder seems more like an appropriate analogy.

It's true, I like rain.

Thunder, not quite as much.

Often, I found myself crying with a plate in front of me. One hand grasping Billie's, while the other is trembling from severe anxiety as it grips the handle of a fork.

Dinner was easier than the other meals, seeing as though that was the only meal I would usually have— and that was mostly because my dad was directly across from me, sitting at the dinner table with a warm smile on his face.

Breakfast wasn't great, but lunch was worse.

Each day that passed, I grew more incredibly grateful for Billie.

But with appreciation, came guilt.

I felt dependent on her and although I knew she didn't feel the same way, I also felt like a burden.

As if I were her responsibility.

She didn't have to do what she was doing. It wasn't her obligation

She didn't have to hold my hand as I cried or tell
me how proud of me she was. Maybe it's morally right, but she certainly didn't have to.

I didn't like it, but I constantly needed to remind myself she wants to do this. She wants to be there for me and her actions aren't done out of pity.

A point in time came where my dad began to question why I was over by Billie's more than usual. I told him that we were working on a laborious project for school. He wasn't one to keep me from my books, so he shrugged it off.

I'm not quite sure if my mom has even noticed how absent I've been, but I suppose that's a good thing. I don't need her breathing down my back, especially during a time like this.

Apart from obvious hardships, staying at her house gave me a much-needed break from my own.

Although I have no problems with my dad, he worked a lot. This frequently left me home alone. Sure, I like being alone from time to time, but I don't like being lonely. There's a difference.

Billie's home had a comforting energy.

We regularly found ourselves laying on the couch in the living room, lights dimmed, curtains drawn, her dad reading stories out loud with a headlight secured around his head.

Billie explained that this was a normal occurrence during her childhood. Perhaps strange to others, but normal to her.

As mysterious as he was, he also happened to have the perfect narrative voice.

Right now, we were slouched down in the beanbag chairs in her room. A penny brown ukulele rested in her lap, while her fingers manipulated the strings to produce a charming melody. Beside her, laid a leather notebook. It was opened and flipped to a page that displayed scribbled-down lyrics to a simple song.

ᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴅᴏ ɪs ᴡᴀsᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ,
ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴇᴇᴍ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪɴᴅ.
ɪ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜʏ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ғɪɴᴇ,
ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ's ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴊᴜsᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍɪɴᴇ.