𝙄𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙨 | Taylor Swift | WLW

7

Taylor Swift was sprawled across the plush leather sofa, one arm draped lazily across her eyes. Her iPhone rested on her chest, connected to white earbuds that disappeared beneath her blonde waves. The frenetic energy of filming "You Need To Calm Down" felt worlds away in this quiet moment of her break.

Girl in Red's gentle guitar strums filled her ears, the intimate lyrics of "Girls" washing over her like a confession. Her mind wandered, unbidden, to last night – to soft lips, gentle hands, and Bea's perfume lingering on her skin. The memory sent a shiver down her spine, making her shift restlessly on the sofa.

Each remembered touch felt electric, making her heart race even now. The way Bea had looked at her like she was seeing Taylor – seeing her – for the first time. Not the pop star, not the media persona, just Taylor. Her fingers absently traced her lips, remembering the softness of that first kiss that Bea initiated. It had been tentative at first, a question whispered against her mouth. Then it deepened, becoming an answer, a promise.

The ceiling above offered no answers, just shadow patterns from the whirring fan that matched the tumultuous thoughts spinning in her head. She'd kissed before, of course – but never like that. Never with that spark of recognition, that sense of everything clicking into place. It was as if every song she'd ever written about love suddenly made sense, each lyric a breadcrumb leading her to this moment.

Time seemed to stretch and compress around that memory, making minutes feel like hours and hours like seconds. The familiar weight of expectations and public persona felt distant here in this private moment, replaced by something both terrifying and thrilling. She could almost see the headlines now: "Taylor Swift Comes Out," "Pop Star's Secret Love." The thought sent a jolt of panic through her, but underneath it, there was something else – relief, maybe? Or perhaps just the exhilaration of finally being seen.

The lyrics suddenly pierced through her reverie, making her cheeks flush hot with recognition: "They're so pretty, it hurts I'm not talking 'bout boys, I'm talking 'bout girls, They're so pretty with their button-up shirts." She felt seen, and understood, like the song was a mirror reflecting her own confused emotions.

Taylor sat up abruptly, her face burning brighter as each verse seemed to mirror her own confused emotions. The raw honesty in the song felt almost too personal, too close to home. She pulled out her phone, staring at the song title as if it might offer some clarity. Had she been running all this time? And if so, what was she running from – or towards?

Her thoughts raced to Bea again; this time with brand new questions. Had there been signs she'd missed? Looking back, their chemistry had always felt different – deeper, more charged. But was that friendship or something more? The uncertainty was maddening.

She found herself scrolling through her memories of their interactions, analyzing every shared laugh, every lingering touch. The way Bea's eyes would crinkle at the corners when she smiled, how she always seemed to know exactly what Taylor needed before she asked. Like the time Bea had shown up with her favorite coffee after a long night of writing, or when she'd stayed late just to talk through a lyric Taylor was stuck on.

Desperate for distraction, Taylor switched to "Sicko Mode," the heavy bass immediately shifting the energy in the room. She bounced to her feet, her body moving before her brain could catch up. The sharp contrast of the music helped push away the overwhelming thoughts.

She danced with abandon, jumping and spinning and waving her arms without any thought to grace or rhythm. It was the dancing one did when no one was watching, when the music took over and the fear of not looking cool was abandoned. She was a whirlwind, a force of nature, whipping her hair around her face as she jumped and twirled.