Taylor Swift + Comfort Oneshots

Silver + Red

TW // Self-harm + body-shaming comments.

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The deafening applause echoed backstage, a surreal contrast to the churning disquiet in Taylor's stomach. Tonight's concert had been another roaring success, yet a hollowness gnawed at her. Back in her luxurious hotel room, the need bloomed like a poisonous flower. The familiar bulge in her makeup bag mocked her – a silver razor, a promise of twisted relief.

It all started with a cruel headline. "Taylor Swift, a good singer, or just another fat pop star?" The accompanying photo captured her from a less-than-flattering angle. Shame coiled in her gut. She wasn't fat, wasn't really, but the seed of doubt was planted. She slipped into the bathroom, the sterile white tiles offering a cold comfort as she wielded the razor. The pain was a harsh counterpoint to the emotional numbness she craved.

This grim ritual became a recurring nightmare. An off-key note during a live performance - a humiliating clip on a late-night talk show - each incident triggered a descent into the bathroom sanctuary. Travis, her boyfriend, remained blissfully unaware. He loved her unconditionally, oblivious to the long sleeves hiding the crimson constellations marring her arms, even in the sweltering summer heat.

One particularly hot day, a viral photo of Taylor "strategically hiding" her stomach behind a water bottle during a lunch break set her off. As she locked herself in the bathroom, the walls seemed to press in, suffocating her. Just as the blade met her skin, the doorknob rattled.

"Taylor? You okay in there?" Travis' voice, laced with concern, cut through the fog of her self-hatred.

Panic choked her. Tears welled up, blurring her reflection in the mirror. Shame and fear warred within her. Finally, she managed a shaky, "Yeah, fine. Just... changing."

"Changing?" He questioned, worry etching lines on his forehead. The silence stretched, broken only by the rasp of her breath. With a deep, shaky breath, Taylor unlocked the door.

Travis' eyes widened in horror at the sight of her arm. The crimson streaks, still raw and weeping, were a brutal testament to her pain. His initial concern hardened into a cold fury. "Taylor, what the hell is this?" His voice held a rawness she'd never heard before.

The dam holding back her emotions finally crumbled. Tears streamed down her face, blurring the already distorted image of herself in the mirror. Her voice, choked with sobs, came out a broken plea, "It's my fault. I'm not good enough. I'm... I'm fat, and my voice is horrible."

Travis didn't hesitate. He rushed to her side, gathering her in a tight embrace. The cold anger melted in his touch, replaced by a profound sadness. "Hey, hey," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "There's nothing wrong with you. You're perfect, flaws and all."

For the first time in months, she truly felt heard. Her sobs subsided into hiccups, his words a balm to her soul. When the tears finally stopped, she pulled away, shame clinging to her like a shroud.

"I... I've been cutting," she confessed, voice barely a whisper.

There was no judgment in his eyes, only concern. "How long?"

She mumbled a timeline, punctuated by heavy silences. "I... I'm sorry, Travis. I didn't want to worry you."

He shook his head firmly. "This isn't something to hide. We'll get help, okay?"

Getting professional help meant facing the ugliness head-on. Dr. Evans, their therapist, became a steadying presence in the storm of Taylor's emotions. But healing wasn't linear. Triggers lurked everywhere - a scathing music review, a fan's photoshop disaster that exaggerated her flaws. But now, she had a lifeline.