Billie Eilish Aesthetic Novels & Stories

Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, a few strands falling against her cheek as she scrubbed the sink and one strand standing erect above her head in rebellion. When she turned my whole body went still. At first glance, Billie looked like the kind of woman you’d pass on the street and forget two seconds later. But the longer I looked, the harder it was to look away. Her beauty didn't make sense, as it was not perfect nor polished, but rather… haunting. Her eyes couldn’t decide if they were blue or green, and when the light hit them right, they almost looked ethereal. “Wait. Are those my clothes?”Silas said behind me, snapping me to present.

She wanted classical music—violins, piano—but with a few touches of Miley Cyrus, because she said no moment was complete without a little rebellion. And this? This was none of that. This was Robert Goldman’s vision, not hers. This was for appearances. This screamed polished ego and public relations. It reeked of him trying to prove something. The press, the grandeur, the forced aesthetic—it was everything Lillian wasn’t, and it made my hands twitch with the urge to end it. Right there. One bullet would fix this whole charade.

That’s not a compliment. “That’s the aesthetic we discussed,” Weston reminds her, his tone patient in a way that suggests they’ve had this conversation before. “Farm chic. Rustic elegance. Remember?” “Of course.” Her smile is bright and brittle. “It’s exactly what we talked about.” It’s absolutely not what she wants and we all know it. I make a mental note that Eloise’s moods seem to shift like weather patterns—warm and engaged during the dress fitting, cool and dismissive now.

“Billie Eilish has a long list of sad songs, Cathy. Alanis too.” “Calum,” I say, a slight warning in my voice. He meets my gaze. “Cathy.” More seconds pass, and his knees brush mine. “There are a lot of great artists who recorded great songs in one take. You have the voice, and now you have the lyrics. Don’t give that up.”

We were blasting, Icona Pop whilst dancing in his living room. "I got this feeling on the summer day when you were gone, I crashed my car into the bridge, I watched, I let it burn", I sang. "I threw your shit into a bag and pushed it down the stairs I crashed my car into the bridge, I don't care!" he chimed. Then together we started singing, "I love it, I don't care! ...You're on a different road, I'm in the Milky Way You want me down on Earth, but I am up in space You're so damn hard to please, we gotta kill this switch

And I couldn't wait. I played Billie Eilish very loudly in my car as I drove there, in an effort to keep myself calm and focused. I wasn't about to throw myself at him. I had to be exactly as I always was, funny and ready to enjoy his innocent company. There was nothing innocent about the way he stared into my eyes, though. Or the way he stared into my eyes and tucked my hair behind my ears, or brushed my jaw with his fingers. I felt tingles of electricity down my spine and I wanted more. God, I wanted more.

“I am a function of aesthetic efficiency. Your territory has become a noisy subplot. I am here to quiet it down. To make it… readable.” It gestured with its stylus. From its book, a beam of flat, white light shot out and touched our cottage wall. Where it touched, the texture of the wood—the grain, the knots, the subtle variations in color—smoothed out into a featureless, beige plane. It wasn't erased; it was genericized. This was the worst invasion yet. They weren't trying to destroy or control. They were trying to make us boring. “Over my dead, highly specific body,” I snarled, lightning crackling at my fingertips.

Sometimes it's best not to recount the horrors you've had to face. You guys don't expect me to tell you what happened after I spilled my drink on Mr. Grumpy's pants but I guess you all have the right to know. The rest of the car ride was eerily quiet and not even the music could break the quietness as the rest of the songs that were playing in the speaker were Billie Elish's album. I love Billie but there's something about the tune of her songs most times that's scary. Like all the good girls go to hell or the bad guy.

Like building something out of thin air and hope. We talked about keeping Goodluck Babe, which made Brody and Thomas nod, and made me glance sideways at Blue. Her smile told me she was in. That one meant something. Then she brought up Lola Young and Billie Eilish, and I swear I could watch her talk music all day. “She’s underrated,” she said about Lola. “That kind of angsty honesty? Total vibe.” “You’ve got the range for it,” I said before I could think twice. Her blush was worth it.