Because Hearts Get Broken

Look at me now

The tennis match is electrifying. The audience roars, engaged with the thrill of the game, having fun.  Taylor, though, is having more fun than them all, ready to outshine everyone. She grabs her drink from the railing, each sip fueling her frenzy.

Her smile is exaggerated, her movements exaggerated, all for the cameras that she knows are watching her every move, waiting for her to slip. She won't. She is the perfect image of fun and happiness today.

She dances with abandon, her laughter ringing out as she sings along to the music blasting between the sets. She's owning the game, ensuring all eyes are on her, giving them what they want.

Travis stands beside her, a steady presence. He doesn't move from her side. He leans in when she whispers into his ear, trying to keep pace with her erratic energy. He tries to steady her, his hands gently holding her. He knows she's pushing herself too hard, but he's cautious not to upset her. He understands how much pressure she's under and how hard she works to maintain this image.

"Baby, maybe we should sit for a bit?" he softly suggests. But another familiar song starts, and she's off again, dancing and singing as if to erase the weight of her reality, her movements increasingly unsteady.

Her smile is plastered as she scans the crowd, feeling the pressure of their eyes. The ones who question every decision she makes, the ones who don't approve of her friends or her choices—they're all watching. Those who've hurt her in the past, who've left wounds and scars she tries so hard to ignore—they're watching too.

Look at me now, she thinks, taking another sip. I survived. I'm doing better than ever.

She doesn't recall how they made it back to her apartment, but there will be plenty of footage to remind her.
There's footage of everything she does outside the four walls of her home. Outside, she does not belong to herself; she is theirs—to praise, to judge, to admire, to dissect, and to scrutinize. Only inside these four walls can she be herself.

She stumbles into her living room. The familiar space immediately soothes her frail state. She struggles to keep steady and drops onto one of the sofas, huddling, her mouth dry.

"Baby, I may go and leave you to rest, Patrick is ...," Travis starts, but before he can finish, she groans, "You're not staying with me?" she slurs.

She doesn't want to be alone.

He walks to the kitchen and gets her a bottle of water. "Here, baby," he says, placing it on the coffee table in front of her.
He would stay, but he's too afraid of the potential confrontation. He knows she's on edge, and she's been acting up lately. Furthermore, she won't be happy when she sees what the media has already made of her amplified display today.

She unsteadily raises to her feet and reaches out to cling to him, her arms around his neck. "Stay. Don't you wanna be with me?" she purrs.

"It's not about not wanting to be with you," he says carefully. "I just think you need some time to sleep this off."

Her face darkens, and a wave of irrational anger sweeps over her. "So, you're just going to leave me alone? Is that it? After everything, you're just walking out on me?" she snaps, pushing him hard.

Here it is, he thinks. Travis tries to remain calm, but the sharpness in her voice stings. "I'm not walking out on you," he says, his voice strained. "I just don't want to make things worse.

You're too upset and drunk right now. I think it's better if I give you some space to cool down."

She shakes her head, her tears mingling with frustration. "You don't care about me at all! If you did, you'd stay!"

Her words hit him hard, but he knows that arguing will only escalate the situation. He takes a deep breath, trying to ground himself. "I care, but right now, I need to step away before things get worse."

With that, he turns and walks to the door.

Taylor's frustration boils over as she storms through the flat, her steps uneven. She leans heavily on the walls, nearly stumbling over furniture. "Why does he have to be so damn unreasonable?" she mutters to herself, her voice seething with rage. "He's supposed to be here for me. That's the fucking deal!"

She kicks at a stray shoe, waking Benjamin, who is sleeping on a nearby chair. Her anger falters as she gazes at him, her eyes welling up at the sight of the cat's softness, a painful reminder of happier times, with someone else.

"I'm so sick of being treated like some kind of spectacle. Like I'm just here for their amusement," she says, her voice breaking as her anger dissolves into despair. "No one really cares. They just want to see me fail. It's always the same."

She stumbles towards her bedroom, her movements frantic. She hastily removes her shoes and dress, yanks her pajamas from under the pillow, and pulls them on with trembling hands.

Dropping onto the bed, she buries her face in the sheets, her body shaking with frustration, "Fucking prophecy," she chokes out, her voice cracking.

As the alcohol's numbing embrace pulls her under, curled in bed, she feels the not-so-distant memory of familiar arms closing around her in a narrow space, and the comforting sound of his heartbeat against her ear, both soothing her as she falls asleep.