︵︵ Billy Shears . 冬

Liverpool ; 1966 ; Billy’s Bedroom !

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You remember the day you found it. Tucked behind the old chapel, where the ground grew soft and the light filtered green through leaves that had been whispering secrets for centuries.

The One Wish Willow. Its branches hung like curtains of silver rain, and the locals had carved their desperate hopes into its bark for generations.

You pressed your palm flat against it, closed your eyes, and thought of the one man you wished would love you back.

Billy, who smiled at you across the street like you were barely there.

Billy, who laughed with his bandmates while you watched from the edge of his orbit.

Billy, whose name you wrote in letters you’d never send. After all, you guys were just friends.

“I want him to love me,” you wished. “I want him to be obsessed with me.”

The willow shivered, though there was no wind.

The first week was a dream pulled straight from the pages of a romance novel.

When you saw Billy across the street again, he made his way over to you, this time.

His eyes held yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

"I don't know what came over me," he said, his voice hushed, almost reverent. "But I couldn't stop thinking about you. Thought maybe you’d wanna grab something to drink at the cafe?”

You told yourself it was fate. That he'd finally seen you. That the universe had tilted in your favor.

He took you to the cafe, his arm draped possessively across your shoulders.

He bought you milkshakes and made you taste his.

He wrote you songs and notes, long ones, filled with poetry that was clumsy but earnest.

He called you every night, sometimes twice, just to hear your voice.

"This is perfect," you whispered to yourself, tracing the heart he'd drawn on your palm with a ballpoint pen.

But perfection, you would learn, has a very short shelf life.

By the third week, the edges began to fray.

You wore a cute outfit outside that day, nothing too much, and Billy met you with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"That's too revealing," he said, his tone light, almost playful.

But his fingers dug into your elbow just a little too hard. "You don't want other people looking at you, do you?"

You laughed it off. Changed into something else he approved. Told yourself he was just protective.

The next week, your best friend since fourth grade called to invite you to the mall.

You were halfway out the door when Billy appeared, leaning against the wall, his expression unreadable.

"You're going out with her?" His voice was flat. "Without telling me?"

"I'm telling you now," you said, confused. "It's just shopping. I'll be back by six."

"No." The word landed like a stone. "You're not going."

You argued. He didn't raise his voice. That was worse.

He simply stood there, blocking the door, his eyes tracking your every movement with the cold precision of a predator.

In the end, you stayed. You called your friend and made up an excuse, your fingers trembling.

“She understood,” you told yourself. “She's not mad.”

But she hung up scoffing.

The obsession grew like mold in a dark room, spreading silently, suffocatingly.

Billy started showing up at your door, Inviting himself in without any notice. He'd memorized your schedule, your route home from different places, the times you usually ate lunch.

He knew the names of every person you'd ever exchanged more than three words with.

"You don't need them," he'd murmur, his lips against your ear, his hand wrapped around your wrist like a bracelet of bone. "You have me. That's enough. That's all you need."

You started to believe him.

Because when he wasn't like this, when he was soft and sweet and gazing at you like you hung the moon, it was intoxicating.

He'd write your name in the steam on the bathroom mirror. He'd hold you so tightly you could feel his heartbeat against your back, frantic and desperate, as if he was afraid you'd dissolve into smoke.

"I love you," he'd whisper, and the words felt like chains wrapped in silk.

You stopped answering your phone when your other friends called.

You stopped going to the movies with anyone but him.

You stopped wearing the colors he didn't like, stopped laughing at jokes he didn't tell, stopped existing in any space he hadn't approved.

And somewhere deep inside you, a voice you'd been ignoring began to scream.

It was a Thursday when you heard the news.

Your friend, the one from the mall, the one you'd blown off, had gone missing. “Last seen Tuesday night. Please, if anyone knows anything.”

Your blood turned to ice.

You tried to call Billy. He didn't pick up. You tried again. But he didn’t answer, yet you simply wanted his comfort.

Your feet were already moving, carrying you through the rain-slicked streets to Billy's house, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

You knocked. No answer.

You knocked again, harder. The door rattled in its frame.

Silence.

You had a key. He'd given it to you, pressed it into your palm with a smile that was almost tender. “In case you ever need me,” he'd said. “In case of emergencies.”

Your hand shook as you fit the key into the lock. The door swung open.

The smell hit you first. Thick, metallic, sweet in a way that made your stomach lurch.

Copper and rot and something else.

The living room was empty. Pristine. A vase of flowers on the coffee table, the TV remote perfectly aligned with the edge of the cushion.

Nothing out of place.

But the smell was stronger from the hallway.

You followed it, your footsteps muffled by the carpet, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The door to Billy's room was slightly ajar. A sliver of light fell across the floorboards.

You pushed it open.

Billy was on his knees, his back to you, his shoulders moving with frantic, mechanical precision.

A black trash bag lay open beside him, its contents spilling out in a dark, wet heap. He was scrubbing the carpet with a rag, the water in the bucket beside him a murky, rusted red.

And then you saw it.

The edge of a hand. Fingers, still painted with the chipped pink polish your friend had worn last week.

The bracelet you'd given her for her birthday, dangling from a wrist that was no longer attached to anything living.

Billy turned.

His face was calm. Almost peaceful. His eyes, those eyes that had once looked at you with such adoration, were flat and empty, like windows into a room that had been abandoned long ago.

"Baby," he said, his voice soft, almost tender. "You weren't supposed to see this."

The rag dripped onto the floor.

He smiled.

"I did it for us. You understand, don't you? She was trying to take you away from me. They all are. But I won't let them. I'll never let them."

He stood, his hands still wet, reaching for you.

"Now we can be together. Forever. Just like you wished."

The willow's branches swayed in your memory, and you realized, with a clarity that cut like glass, that you had never specified how he should love you.

You breathed heavily.