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The Dolby Theatre glittered with gold and camera flashes, gowns that shimmered like wet stardust, and walls of applause that felt like they could knock a person over. Billie had handled award shows before — the whispers, the stares, the overwhelming hum of being watched. But something about tonight felt too loud. Too much.
She slipped away during a break in the show, heels clicking rapidly on marble until she found a quiet service hallway near the back of the venue, fluorescent-lit and echoing with a low hum. The air here was still, cool. But inside her, everything was spiraling.
Then it started.
Her shoulder twitched once. Then again, violently. Her jaw snapped to the side and she gritted her teeth hard. A sudden gasp forced its way out of her mouth.
“Huhh!” she exhaled sharply. “AHH!” she screamed — loud, raw, sudden.
The sound bounced off the cold walls. Her chest heaved. Her arm flung out to the side involuntarily, hitting the wall with a dull thud.
She dropped to the floor, curling into herself, heart hammering.
“Uhhh-uh-uh-AHH!” she screamed again, her voice cracking from force. “Tt-tch! Hhkk!” Her throat clicked. Her eyelids squeezed shut as her head snapped to the right, over and over.
It was like trying to hold back a storm with her bare hands.
She didn’t notice the footsteps at first.
Then a voice — soft, real.
“Hey... Billie?”
She froze. Or tried to.
A familiar voice, low and warm. Not pitiful. Just present.
She blinked hard through tears and another tic — a full-body jerk — and looked up.
Nat Wolff. Standing a few feet away, his tux slightly wrinkled, a look of cautious concern on his face. He crouched down slowly, not coming too close.
“Is it okay if I stay?” he asked, eyes gentle. “I can leave if you want.”
She tried to speak, but a loud “HAHH!” burst from her lungs. Her hand slapped against her leg. Her other arm flung outward again. Then she nodded — tiny, sharp.
“Okay,” Nat said. He stayed right where he was, crouched, hands visible, grounded. “No pressure. No words. I’m just here.”
As she tensed through another wave of full-body tics — gasping, twitching, blinking rapidly, making involuntary snorting sounds — Nat didn’t flinch. He watched with patience, even as his own body started to move subtly.
A twitch. A throat clear. A blink that lingered too long. A slight sniff.
Billie’s next vocal tic — a high-pitched “AHHH!” — startled a tear out of her eye, and she whispered hoarsely, “I’m… triggering you.”
Nat gave a small laugh, his own head twitching gently. “A little. But it’s okay. I mirror when I’m stressed, or if someone I… connect with is ticking. I don’t mind.”
She let out a shaky breath. Then a barked “Fuh!”
Nat sat fully on the floor now, back against the opposite wall, legs stretched out, his presence calm.
“I’ve had Tourette’s since I was about seven,” he said softly. “Had to learn how to sit with it. How to not hate it. Still working on that part.”
Billie’s fingers were opening and closing fast. She smacked her hand against the cold floor. “I hate it sometimes.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “I know.”
