The world was a limitless, never ending expansion of space and time. People met people, and maybe they stayed together, or maybe they fell apart. Or maybe they got back together, or—
Amid the albums and the chaos, her name was plastered across all sorts of tabloids and magazines, spouting bullshit about her relationships and why she'd been creating music, and who was next on her hit list of miserable men. The list of potential complaints dragged on. Taylor Out And About With New Man? New Album Coming? Taylor Swift: It's OVER! Why The Glamorous Pop Star is Calling it Quits with Tom Hiddleston. It never ended.
Whatever had landed her in this relationship, however, Taylor was not complaining about.
It started with the wine and the fine dining, the little texts sent at random times, the gifts on her door step, to madly rushing over to his house because the distance between her lips and his was far too great to accept. Then the mad rushes turned into a breathless move in with me between messy kisses and wandering hands and she responded with a yes yes yes yes god yes though in response to his question or sheerly out of ecstasy, she'll never remember.
"Your Midas touch on the Chevy door..."
She kissed his hand again, for good measure, before diving back into her songwriting. Her notebook and loose sheets of lined paper littered her lap and the floor in front of her.
"...November flush and your flannel cure..."
Strong arms wrapped around her body and she dropped the notebook on the floor in front of her, twisting to face Joe.
Three years with this man, and he still looked at her like she'd hung all the moon and stars in the sky for him. He was at her every event, in the wings at every concert with a hug and a soft you did it babe, you did it and it was everything Taylor needed.
Post 1989 world tour had been some of the worst years of her life. Between her eating disorder, the media backlash and her career being forced on the line, the brink had edged closer. And then there was Joe. With his soft accent and his smile every time she played a new song for him. Perfect, and sweet and gentle. Everything she needed when her world crashed down around her. The world could've gone to shit, and she'd be happy with Joe. Joe, and Benjamin, and Meredith, and Olivia.
Oh, and her parents.
Then there was her insanely coordinated return to social media, opting for a three panel gif of a black snake hissing, and then the subsequent release of her sixth studio album, "reputation". The tabloids loved her—"TAYLOR SWIFT: BACK AND BETTER THAN EVER!". They splashed her name across every cover, every inch of the magazine that would be seen by the human eye, in an attempt to redeem themselves from the cruel words they'd published only years ago.
And then when everything finally calmed down, post Lover, post cancellation of the Lover Fest tour, settling into a semi-manageable rhythm of studio days and home days and hiding-from-the-public days, she actually felt somewhat together. She could breathe.
Even so, something had to disrupt the balance. After a month of bliss, she was granted a week where she threw up in the morning, like clockwork. That morning she woke, dizzy with nausea and a sinking feeling in her stomach. As she wiggled her way out of the bedsheets and beelined for the bathroom, she couldn't help but finally realize that her period was late.
She made it to the toilet with seconds to spare, everything she'd had for dinner last night coming up. It felt like wringing out her insides. When she finally stopped dry heaving, she tilted back against the wall of the bathtub to catch her breath.
"Babe?"
"Hm?" she muttered, eyes half closed with exhaustion.
"You okay?"
