Taylor Swift's Point of View
The insistent whine of the alarm clock drills into my skull. I swat at it blindly, silencing the shrill demand for another hour stuck under the covers. The warmth of the sheets feels like a cocoon, a desperate attempt to shield myself from the world outside. My eyelids flutter closed, heavy with a fatigue that seeps deep into my bones. It's a relentless exhaustion, a constant reminder of the darkness clinging to me for weeks.
A gentle hand brushes against my shoulder. "Taylor, you need to get up," Travis murmurs, his voice laced with concern. I burrow deeper into the nest of blankets, clinging to the last vestiges of sleep.
"No," I mumble, my voice thick with a fatigue that's become my unwelcome companion.
"Come on, Tay," he sighs. "It's been happening every morning. You can't just sleep all day."
His words pierce the fog, a sliver of guilt pricking at my conscience. But the thought of facing the day feels like climbing a mountain in quicksand. All I want is to close my eyes and shut out the world, to drown in the oblivion of sleep.
"I just want to sleep," I whine, turning away from him.
Travis doesn't reply, but I feel the shift in the mattress as he moves closer. A cool hand reaches under the blankets, tugging gently at the edge. I tighten my grip, a silent plea for him to leave me be.
"Okay," he says finally, a hint of frustration and something deeper, a flicker of worry, in his voice. "But you can't sleep in bed all day."
With a swift motion, he pulls the covers away, exposing me to the harsh light of day. A shiver racks my body, not just from the sudden coolness but from the emotional vulnerability. I groan, burying my face in my crossed arms.
"Fine," I mutter, the defiance a hollow echo in my own ears. "Just...give me some space."
There's a beat of silence, then the soft touch of his lips on my forehead. "Thank you," he whispers, and I can hear the relief and a tremor of something else, a fear I can't quite place.
One step at a time. I stumble towards the bathroom, hand pressed against my clammy forehead. The negative pregnancy tests mock me from the counter, a cruel reminder of my body's betrayal. My period arrived, right on schedule, yet the fatigue and nausea linger. It makes no sense. Reaching the sink, I splash cold water on my face, the shock momentarily clearing the fog in my head. That's when I see it.
My reflection stares back, a stranger with haunted eyes. But it's not my face that draws my attention. It's the dark stain blooming across the pale fabric of my pajamas, right over my left breast. Panic claws at my throat, constricting my breath. My heart hammers a frantic tattoo against my ribs. With trembling fingers, I fumble with the buttons, the fabric catching and tearing in my haste. The top falls to the floor in a heap, revealing the source of the horror.
A bloody discharge leaks from my left nipple, staining a patch of skin a terrifying crimson. I gasp, the sound raw and choked. Instinct takes over. I grab a nearby towel, its rough texture a grounding force against the chaos within me. Wrapping it tightly around myself, I stare at the reflection. It's been weeks – weeks! – since I last dared to look at that side.
It started innocently enough. A tiny lump, no bigger than a pea. I convinced myself it was nothing, a mere blip on the radar. Until one morning, I woke to a searing redness around the area, the lump now throbbing with a dull ache. That's when the fear truly set in. So, I did what anyone in denial does – I pretended it wasn't there. Ignored it. Hoped it would magically disappear. But the fear, the silent scream of what it might be, has only festered, growing larger and darker with each passing day.
