Chapter Text
You never meant to fall in love with her.
Beyoncé was your best friend. The girl you met backstage at a mutual industry event nearly a decade ago when you were just getting your footing as a songwriter and she was already Beyoncé. You were nervous, polite, kept your head down—but she saw through all that. Called you funny. Said your lyrics had more pain in them than half the charts. Smiled like she meant it.
And you didn’t expect her to text you after. But she did. she never really stopped after that.
It started as a friendship. The kind where you show up to each other's birthdays and laugh too loud in each other’s kitchens, the kind where she sends you sleepy selfies and you send her unreleased demos at 2 a.m, the kind where Blue grew up calling you “Auntie [y/n/n]” before you ever imagined anything more.
And then the whole cheating scandal happened.
The whole world saw the cracks. Everyone had something to say about the elevator, the silence, The album and when she finally left him. really left him. you were there. You didn’t ask questions. You just showed up.
You held her when she cried, you cooked when she didn’t eat, you stayed the night more times than you didn’t.
And one day somewhere in between healing and hoping, she kissed you. Told you it wasn’t a rebound. Told you she wanted this. Wanted you.
You believed her.
But now?
Now you’re not so sure.
As you sit on the edge of her massive California king bed, fingers tangled in the hem of your sweatshirt—her sweatshirt, oversized and faded from years of wear. She’s in the ensuite bathroom, door cracked just enough for you to hear the running water and nothing else.
She hasn’t touched you all day.
You were supposed to have brunch together—something quiet, just you, her, and Blue. Instead, she said she had a “meeting.” She didn’t say with who. You didn’t ask. But you felt it in your chest, that ache that blooms when someone’s slipping and you can’t grab tight enough to hold them.
She comes out eventually towel wrapped around her body, face blank. She looks at you once. Briefly. Like it stings to hold your gaze.
“I have to take a call,” she says, not even meeting your eyes as she reaches for her phone.
Your heart does that annoying thing, skipping like it’s unsure whether to race or stop entirely.
“Everything okay baby?” you ask, and you hate how soft your voice sounds. Like you’re trying not to scare her away.
She nods but it’s tight. Careful. “Yeah. Just…work stuff.”
She leaves the room before you can ask anything else.
You don’t want to be that person. The clingy, insecure one who reads too much into everything. But it’s hard not to when she goes from warm hands and sleepy kisses to…this.
You stay sitting there, staring at the door she just walked through. Listening. Not intentionally, but you do it anyway. The soft shuffle of her footsteps fades down the hallway, replaced by the click of her office door closing.
She didn’t say “I’ll be back.”, Didn’t say “wait for me.”
Just…gone. Again
You sigh and just pick up your phone, scrolling through old photos, screenshots of texts where she called you her peace. Pictures of the two of you in robes, masks on, laughing over wine. A video Blue took of Beyoncé kissing your cheek and calling you “her muse.”
So why the cold act now?
Why the distance?
Putting your phone back down, you lie back on the bed eyes fixed on the ceiling fan that hums above you, its blades spinning slow like the pace of your unraveling thoughts. You know her routines. You know when something’s off. And this—this is off
Three months ago she would’ve climbed into bed with you. Wrapped around you like you were home. Whispered that the world didn’t matter, not when you were here. And now? she barely speaks unless it’s necessary.
You roll over and grab your phone again, opening your texts. Her name is pinned at the top, heart emoji and all like some stupid digital promise.
You scroll up.
Back to a month ago—‘Hey, wanna sneak away this weekend? Just you and me.’
Back to two months ago—‘You looked so good last night, [y/n]. I couldn’t stop staring.’
Back to three—‘Please don’t leave. I sleep better when you’re here.’
Then you scroll down.
The last few messages are one-sided.
You:‘Did you eat?’
You:‘I left you that ginger tea you like.’
You:‘I know its Blue’s volleyball game this weekend, Want me to come?’
No replies.
She’s not cruel. She’s not yelling or slamming doors. But that’s what makes it worse. It’s a quiet withdrawal, a gentle retreat—like she’s already halfway gone and doesn’t want to be the one to say it.
Your stomach twists.
You get up, needing something to do, anything to pull your thoughts away from the what-ifs and maybes that keep knocking around your brain like broken glass.
You find yourself in the kitchen, barefoot, fingers twitchy. You make tea, though you don’t want any. It’s the kind she likes. Lemon and honey, no sugar. You used to make it for her after long rehearsals, after heavy therapy sessions, after nights when she broke down in your arms, finally allowing herself to be soft.
You wonder if she’s ever made it for him.
The thought makes you sick.
You glance down at the mug in your hand and hesitate. Then, with a quiet breath, you walk it down the hall. You knock lightly on her office door. “Bey?” you say, voice even.
A pause.
Then: “Yeah?”
You crack the door open just enough to see her. She’s sitting at her desk, phone face-down beside her, laptop open, something playing you can’t hear. Her face is neutral. Not angry. Just unreadable. You hold out the mug.
“Made you tea.”
She looks at it, then at you and for a moment, you swear you see something—regret, maybe. Guilt. Love? You can’t tell anymore.
“Thanks,” she says finally, taking it from you without touching your hand. “That’s sweet of you.”
You want to say: You used to call me sweet all the time.
You want to say: Tell me what’s going on.
You want to say: Are you still mine?
But insteadyou nod and step back.
“Let me know if you need anything.”
The door clicks shut behind you and this time it feels heavier.
- - -
Later that night, she doesn't come to bed.
You lie alone on her side of the mattress, eyes open, ears trained on every sound outside the room. A floorboard creaks in the hallway. You hear her voice faintly—on the phone. Muffled. Gentle.
You can’t make out the words, but you recognize that softness.
It used to be yours.
You turn over and bury your face into her pillow, trying not to cry.
You don’t sleep.
You tried. God, you really tried. You bury yourself beneath the silk sheets and force your eyes shut, count backwards from one hundred, play white noise on your phone—ocean waves, distant thunder, anything—but nothing works. Your brain is too loud, looping the same questions over and over until they lose meaning.
Why is she being so distant?
Did I do something?
Is she regretting us?
Is this just a phase—some wave she’s riding through grief and healing and confusion?
You try to remind yourself that Beyoncé is… complicated. A mother. A mogul. A woman whose life has never really been her own. You try to make space for that. You try to be understanding. You think back to her quiet breakdowns, the time she told you she doesn’t always feel like she’s allowed to be unhappy. That she’s exhausted by the pedestal, the image, the pressure.
Maybe she’s overwhelmed.
Maybe this has nothing to do with you.
But your brain is cruel.
It whispers the worst things at 3 a.m.
What if she never really chose you? What if you were just comfort?
A placeholder. A warm body while she figured things out.
You press your palms over your face and force the thought away. It’s not fair. She told you she loved you. She looked you in the eye and said it— “[y/n], I’m serious about you.” That wasn’t fake. That couldn’t have been fake.
Could it?
You sit up, breathing shallow now, chest tight. You almost grab your phone again. You almost text her, even though she’s just down the hallway. You almost write ‘Can we talk?’ or ‘Are we okay?’ but you don’t send anything.
You hate that this is what it’s come to. Sitting in her bed, wondering if she still wants you here. Wondering if she’s waiting for the right moment to say goodbye.
You glance at the clock. 3:46 a.m.
The house is quiet. Still. But you can’t shake the feeling that somewhere in this same house, she’s also awake. Thinking about something. Someone.
- - -
By morning, you try to act normal. You always do.
You come downstairs in one of your nicer shirt, hair pulled back neatly, trying to look less like a woman who spent the night overanalyzing silence and more like someone who slept beside peace.
Blue’s already at the counter, half-asleep with a bowl of cereal and mismatched socks. She grins when she sees you.
“Morning Auntie [y/n/n].”
You smile, genuinely. “Morning Blueberry.”
You ruffle her curly hair lightly and glance toward the living room, expecting to see Beyoncé sipping tea and scrolling through emails like she always does, but she’s not there.
“She already left,” Blue mumbles between bites.
You blink. “What?”
“Mom. She said she had a meeting. Early.”
Your stomach drops—slow, cold, like a stone sinking in water.
You check your phone.
No text. No kiss on the cheek. Not even a post-it on the counter.
You force a smile. “Right. Must’ve been last-minute.”
Blue hums not really paying attention. She’s a kid after all. She doesn’t see what you see. She doesn’t notice the missing pieces yet.
But you do.
You feel them every time Beyoncé forgets to say goodbye. Every time she dodges a question or deflects with a smile. Every time she laughs but it doesn’t reach her eyes anymore.
So you spend the rest of the day pretending it doesn’t bother you.
You clean up around the house. You respond to a few work emails you’ve been ignoring. You try to write—lyrics, a verse, anything—but nothing comes out.
You used to write about her. About the way she made you feel. That weightless, euphoric kind of love that doesn’t come around often. But now when you try to write about her, all you feel is this ache. This terrible, dragging ache that makes your hands still and your heart hurt.
You check your phone again.
Still nothing.
By nightfall she still hasn’t come home. Not even a single text from her.
You tell yourself not to panic. Not to spiral. Not to assume the worst.
But your mind betrays you anyway.
Is she with someone else?
Is she with… him?
You shut your eyes tight and shake your head. No. No. She wouldn't do that. Not without saying something first. Not Beyoncé.
But then again maybe she’s not saying anything because it’s him. Because it’s familiar. Because she’s still tied to him in ways you’ll never understand. Ways you can’t compete with.
You get in the shower and let the water run hot, too hot, hoping it’ll wash away the dread. But even under the steam, your chest stays tight.
You don’t know what’s happening.
But something is.
And the silence is starting to feel like the loudest answer you’ve ever heard.