Chapter 26 Billie
Billie
Igo live at eight like I always do.
Normal setup. Ring light. Controller. Virtual background running, filter on, BrattyBaby loading in. Chat floods within thirty seconds — the familiar noise of it, four thousand people settling in, the community that I built from nothing in eighteen months.
I pick up my controller. I start playing.
The game is good tonight. Kill count climbing steady.
Chat in the flow state. I'm running clean, hitting shots, the specific version of competent that only comes out when everything outside the game has settled enough to let me concentrate.
And it has settled. Not perfectly. Not painlessly. But settled.
My dad called yesterday. Asked how I was feeling. Not about Declan. Not about the baby. About me. Just me. It was a short call. It was enough.
Declan is at the kitchen table behind me.
Reading. A physical book, because he's a forty-eight-year-old man who reads physical books at kitchen tables and that's who he is.
He's visible at the edge of my frame — not deliberately, not hidden.
Just there. The way he's been there since I went back online.
I play for forty minutes. Good run. Chat is happy. I'm happy.
Then I set the controller down.
My chat notices immediately. billie? you ok? why'd she stop. is something wrong.
I look at the camera. The filter is still on. The virtual background still running. BrattyBaby looking back at me from the preview: smoothed skin, softened features, the constructed version of a person I've been for eighteen months.
I turn off the filter.
It takes about three seconds. One toggle.
The virtual background drops. The smoothing drops.
My real face on the public stream for the first time.
My freckles. My skin. The dark circles under my eyes that I've had for two weeks.
The slightly different shape of my jaw that the filter was always correcting. Just me.
I keep talking.
"So," I say. "This is my face."
Chat takes about thirty seconds to process this and then loses its collective mind. BILLIE. OH MY GOD. SHE TURNED OFF THE FILTER. HER FRECKLES. BILLIE YOUR FRECKLES. wait she's so pretty what. WHY WERE YOU HIDING THIS. the freckles the freckles the freckles. BILLIE.
I laugh. The real one. The one that's too loud and catches in my throat.
"I know," I say. "I have freckles. It's been a whole thing."
I pick up the controller. I keep playing. My real face on the screen. My real voice. The same game, the same skill, the same person. Just unfiltered.
Chat settles after a few minutes. They adjust. The freckle commentary fades into the normal game commentary and the kill count climbs and I'm just playing, just gaming, just Billie, and it feels like putting down something heavy I didn't realize I was carrying.
Someone in chat, about an hour in, during a lull between rounds:
are you happy billie?
I look at the camera. I look past the camera at Declan, who is still at the kitchen table, who has been there the entire stream, who is reading his book and not looking at the screen and not performing anything for anyone.
He looks up. His eyes find mine the way they always do. Before I've been looking five seconds.
"Yeah," I say. To chat. To him. To myself. "I really am."
No performance in it. No managing. Just the truth, said out loud, on camera, with my real face showing.
Chat goes quiet for about two seconds. Then: BILLIE ?????? we love you. WE LOVE YOU BILLIE. protect billie at all costs.
I pick up the controller. I keep playing. My eyes are doing something that I refuse to acknowledge on a live stream.
I end the stream at ten. Close the laptop. Take off the headset.
Declan is still at the kitchen table. I go over to say something — what, I haven't decided — and I stop.
His laptop is open. Seventeen browser tabs. I can see them from where I'm standing.
My leaderboard. My clan history. My Thursday gaming group roster. My kill-to-death ratio across three platforms. A forum thread analyzing my play style. A video breakdown of my best stream from last month.
He has been researching my world with the same thoroughness he applies to security assessments and site evaluations and everything else he decides matters enough to understand completely. He has been sitting at this kitchen table during my stream doing homework on my game.
"Declan," I say.
He looks up. His expression is the one he makes when he's been caught doing something he doesn't intend to apologize for.
"I was doing research," he says.
"Into my kill-to-death ratio."
A beat. His mouth does the thing. The almost-smile. The rare one.
"It's very respectable," he says.
I look at him. This man. Sitting at his kitchen table researching my gaming stats because he has decided that if this is my world then he is going to learn it, properly, with the full attention he brings to everything he loves.
I kiss him. Once. Twice. He doesn't move. Just sits there and lets me kiss him with the patience of a man who has all the time in the world.
Later. The ring light is off. The room is dim. The monitor dark.
I sit in my gaming chair for a moment. My real face reflected in the dark screen. Unfiltered. Not performing anything for anyone.
I've spent my whole life being different versions of myself for different rooms. BrattyBaby for the stream. Good daughter for my dad. Competent professional for the subscribers. Funny, sharp, managed Billie for everyone else.
The filter is off. The stream was public. Declan is in the other room. My dad knows. Cian knows. My chat knows my face.
I'm just Billie.
Turns out that's enough. It always was.