Billie Eilish' depression

She lived in semi-shadow—not because the house was dark, but because everything inside had long since gone dark. Billie would wake up, stare at the ceiling, and count the minutes until she could do nothing again. The day dragged on like a thick thread, unwilling to even trace it. Breakfasts, letters, phone calls—everything seemed like something from someone else's life, distant and dim.
At night, she found it easier. Light and noise faded from the streets, leaving only the step—a rhythm she could repeat endlessly. She walked with and without headphones, sometimes listening to music so quietly that it seemed as if memories were playing in the background. Sometimes she simply walked, without anything playing, because the silence offered fewer answers, but also didn't demand them. Passersby flashed by—other worlds, other joys. She wasn't envious; she wanted nothing more than to stop feeling the heaviness in her chest.
Her apathy was a thick blanket: she could stare for hours at a single spot on the wall and feel the world pass through her. Her phone lay silent, her messages like unread islands. She was afraid to talk about how bad she felt, because she didn't know how to articulate the emptiness. The hardest part wasn't that she was tired, but that fatigue had become her permanent garment.
One day, sitting on a bench by the river, headphones in, Billie noticed a light in the window across the street: a small kitchenette, a cup on the table, a book clutched between her fingers. A figure flickered in the window—a girl with long, dark red hair, who also looked tired, but there was a softness to her weariness. She looked up and, seeing Billie, smiled for a second—a tiny, but real gesture. Billie initially turned away, as if she'd been caught reading something too personal. But that smile lingered inside, like a forgotten melody.