You'll Be Alright - Taylor Swift

Part 30

Waking up without Ry beside me has become something I've had to get used to. She's always been an early riser, slipping out of bed to play the piano while the rest of the house is still asleep. In the beginning, it would send me into a frenzy of worry, my heart racing until I found her safely at the piano, her fingers dancing over the keys. But after a few of those panicked mornings, I learned to let it go. I told myself she just needed her space, her time to get lost in the music. I put a baby monitor right next to the piano so that every morning I wake up, and the first thing I hear is her.

But that was before the nightmares started.

Ever since those terrifying dreams took hold of her, Ry hasn't left my side. She clings to me like a lifeline, refusing to be anywhere but in my arms. The piano, her once-beloved sanctuary, has been abandoned, the music silenced for weeks now. And as much as I miss hearing her play, I can't bring myself to push her away or tell her it's okay to leave my side. I've grown used to waking up to the warmth of her small body pressed against mine, her head nestled into the crook of my neck as if it's the only place she feels safe because it is the only place she feels safe.

So when my eyes flutter open, and I'm not met with the sight of Ry curled up beside me or the familiar sensation of her soft breathing against my skin, the panic that surges through me is like nothing I've ever felt before. Okay, that is a blatant lie. The fear that courses through me is just the same as the time I woke up after she was born and she wasn't there. It's soul-crushing.

It's immediate, a cold rush that grips my chest and squeezes the air from my lungs. My heart stutters, then starts to pound with a frantic urgency as I bolt upright in bed, my eyes scanning the room in a desperate search for her.

She's not there.

The bed is empty, and the sheets are cool where she should be. My mind races, a thousand horrible possibilities flashing through my thoughts all at once. Did she have another nightmare? Did she try to face it alone and couldn't handle it? Did someone take her again? Did someone steal my baby while I was asleep for a second time? 

My heart twists painfully at the thought, and I'm out of bed in an instant, not even bothering to grab my robe as I rush out of the bedroom.

I have to find her.

The house is eerily quiet, the stillness only amplifying my fear. I head straight for the piano room, hoping—praying—that maybe she found the courage to play again. But when I push the door open, the room is just as I left it the night before untouched, silent, the piano bench empty.

"Buddy?" I call out, my voice trembling, barely able to form the word. I feel like I'm suffocating, the panic closing in around me like a vice. "Little surviour?" I call again as I start moving from room to room, checking every corner, every hiding spot I can think of. I'm not even sure what I'm looking for—just any sign that she's okay, that she's safe, that she's still here. 

But as each room turns up empty, my fear only grows.

It's not just about finding her. It's about finding her before the darkness does.

My feet carry me faster now, almost running as I make my way through the house. The spare rooms, the living room, even the small study—she's not in any of them. I'm on the verge of tears, the edges of my vision blurring as I keep searching, desperately trying to find her.

But just as I'm about to reach for yet another door, a sound stops me in my tracks—a soft, familiar hum coming from the kitchen. It's so out of place, so utterly unexpected, that I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. The hum turns into quiet laughter, the kind that only comes from genuine comfort. And then I hear it: the clinking of dishes, the sound of utensils against plates.