Billie Eilish and her daughter imagines

I hate touring...

Amelia 14 yo

(TW: SH)

Amelia pov

**Amelia's Tour Diary**

I hate touring.

It's not like I don't love Mom and Finneas. I do. I love them more than anything. But touring? It's this relentless cycle of exhaustion and unfamiliarity. Every day a new city, a new venue, a new room to sleep in. Everything is different except for how I feel: tired and sad.

I'm sitting on the floor in front of the stage. Mom and Finneas are doing mic checks, and I watch them through the curtain of my long, dark hair. They're so in sync, always finishing each other's sentences, both musically and literally. It's beautiful to watch. I wish I felt that connected to something.

Mom's voice fills the empty arena, and it wraps around me like a blanket. Even in soundcheck, her voice is mesmerizing. I close my eyes, letting it seep into my bones. For those few minutes, the chaos inside my head quiets down.

"Hey, Amelia!" Finneas calls out, making me open my eyes. "What do you think? Sound good?"

"Sounds amazing, as always," I say, trying to smile. My cheeks feel heavy.

He grins and gives me a thumbs up before turning back to adjust some settings. Mom catches my eye and gives me a small, worried smile. She knows. She always knows, but there's not much she can do when she's preparing for a show.

The hours pass in a blur. People bustle around, setting up equipment, testing lights, and preparing for the evening performance. I stay in the background, my presence barely a shadow.

Dinner time arrives. I pick at my food, the sight of it twisting my stomach into knots. The voices around me are muffled, like I'm underwater. I eat a bit, just enough so that no one will comment, and then excuse myself.

I find the bathrooms out of the greenroom. They're cold and sterile, the bright lights making everything look harsh. I enter a stall and lock the door behind me. My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel like I can't breathe.

I lean over the toilet, fingers down my throat. It's a routine I know all too well. The relief that follows is immediate but short-lived. The cycle continues: eat, feel guilty, purge, feel empty. It's the only way I feel any control over my life.

When I'm done, I flush and lean against the wall, tears streaming down my face. I hate this. I hate what I'm doing to myself. But I can't stop. The door to the bathroom creaks open, and I freeze. Panic surges through me, but I can't move.

"Amelia?" It's Mom's voice, soft and concerned. She must have noticed how little I ate. She always notices.

"Yeah, Mom?" I manage to croak out, trying to sound normal.

"Are you okay, sweetie?"

"I'm fine. Just needed a minute." I wipe my face and try to compose myself before unlocking the stall and stepping out.

Mom's standing there, her eyes filled with worry. She looks tired too, but she always makes time for me, no matter what. "You don't look fine," she says gently.

I can't hold it in any longer. I burst into tears, and she wraps me in her arms. "I'm sorry, Mom," I sob into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"Shh, it's okay, Amelia. It's okay." She holds me tighter, and I cling to her like she's the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.

"I hate touring," I confess between sobs. "I hate feeling like this. I don't know what to do."

"We'll figure it out," she promises, stroking my hair. "We'll find a way to make it better. You're not alone, Amelia. I'm here. Finneas is here. We love you so much."