IMAGINES | travis kelce + taylor swift (1)

18.3 | then you're gone (tw)

TRIGGER WARNING: SCENES / CONVERSATIONS OF SUICIDE

(im sorry for this and i cried while making it sooooooo) if you guys want a similar story to this with a happier ending lmk.

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one year later | TAYLOR

"Travis," I sing, placing my belongings on the counter. "I'm home, baby, and I have a surprise for you!"

I was retreated to a thick, deafening silence for nearly a minute after. It's unlikely for Travis to avoid responding to me, given that I'm not the most secure person on the planet. It's even more abnormal to walk into a home gutted with quietude. When Travis was home, there was always some background noise giving off his location. Both of his vehicles were parked in the driveway, and his shared location was partnered with mine, and it showed he was home.

Though Travis and I play tricks on each other every so often, and given I just spoke to him on the phone last night, I tried to tame my thinking to a minimum. There was a chance he was playing a trick on me, but that'd open a reason for me to return the behavior to him. I holler for him again. "Travis," I giggled. "You know I'm pettier than you are."

I began pacing through the home. The basement and ground floor were clear of Travis's presence. Jesus, even the apartment was tidied. My heart was beating a little tighter now, and I'm cautiously tampering up the staircase. No signs of Travis were given in either bathroom, so I checked his office. I expect to find him here, dwindling on some paperwork, editing a record of his and Jason's podcast. I push open the door, yelling "Gotcha," but he was not there either. The silence is beginning to come a little too real now, and I've got one last place to check before I freak the fuck out.

I hurry over to the bedroom. This time, I don't even bother calling for him. When I'm welcomed into the room by the sight of Travis sprawled out on the bed, my heart resets itself. See, he was just sleeping, I reassured myself. I strut over to him with a wide grin over my face, setting myself along the edge of the mattress. I begin to poke his shoulder, traveling down his arm. When he doesn't respond to that, I nudge him. Then, I shove him. I frown, and suddenly, I am unable to breathe steadily. I start yelling at him, for him, "Travis, wake up!"

When he doesn't respond, I pull him into my lap. I struggled to flip him right-side up, given his face was buried in the mattress. I realize then he's not breathing, and I panick. The color in his face was gone. Something in me feels the urge to smack him in the face. "Travis!" I screamed, "Travis, wake up! This isn't fuckin' funny anymore." I hit him one, twice, three more times, then I start to question myself.

How many times can one hold their breath for longer than two minutes? Does one become so deeply involved in their dream that they're momentarily dead? Is it possible for one to be so limp? Is it possible for one to freeze their skin? How many times can one be batted across the head before they realize just how much it hurts? How long does it take for someone like me to accept that he's not faking this.

They can't. They do not. Probably not. Not without getting frostbite first. Usually the jolt out of their trance the first swing. It takes someone like me never to accept this.

Innately, tears begin to fall from the corner of either of my eyes. "Travis, c'mon. Wake up, this isn't funny."

I spin my head around, observing my surroundings. I hope to find something that would bribe him out of this, but I don't. The only item that my gaze falls on to knock me out of this hopeless thinking is an empty orange-tint container, peeking from beneath the pile of duvets. Just for a moment, as I was reaching out for it, every organ, every limb, every vein in my body numbed. My heart stopped beating, my brain wasn't processing anything, and my blood froze. My breath hitches as the pieces fall together, as this all becomes real.