Taylor Swift and Tree Paine Oneshots

Gastro...what?

It's early 2024. Taylor's home feels empty, the fridge void of any sign of food. Tree Paine, who's been Taylor's publicist for years, paces through the kitchen, her concern growing with every passing moment. It's been years since she's seen Taylor eat—literally. And now, staring at the empty shelves in the fridge, Tree feels the weight of something being very wrong.

Tree walks back into the living room where Taylor is quietly typing on her phone, avoiding eye contact. The silence between them feels heavier than usual. Tree knows she needs to say something, even if it's uncomfortable.

Tree, taking a deep breath: "Taylor, we need to talk."

Taylor glances up, but her face gives nothing away. "About what?"

Tree, gesturing toward the fridge: "There's no food in there. I can't remember the last time I saw you actually eat a meal. What's going on?"

Taylor stiffens but doesn't respond immediately. Instead, she turns her attention back to her phone, trying to deflect. "I'm fine, Tree. You're overthinking it."

But Tree is determined. She gets up, walks into the kitchen, and comes back with a plate of food she found in the pantry.

Tree, pushing: "No, you're not. You haven't eaten in front of me in years. You can't keep this up. I don't know what's going on, but this... whatever this is, it's not healthy."

Taylor's jaw tightens, her grip on the phone hardening. "I can't eat it, Tree."

Tree, exasperated: "Can't or won't? Taylor, this has been going on for too long. You need help. You need to start taking care of yourself, and that means eating."

Taylor's emotions surge. She knows Tree doesn't understand, but she can't bring herself to explain. The G-tube, the gastroparesis, the constant nausea—it's all too complicated to lay out in a conversation that's already spiraling out of control.

Taylor, her voice rising: "You don't get it. It's not what you think!"

Tree, stepping closer: "Then what is it, Taylor? Everyone's worried. You've barely touched food in years, and I've been watching you waste away. Is it an eating disorder? Is that what this is?"

Taylor stands abruptly, her hands shaking with frustration. How could Tree think that? After everything she's been through, after all the doctor's visits, the hospital stays—how could she reduce it to something so simple?

Taylor, shouting: "It's not a damn eating disorder, Trina!"

Tree, equally frustrated: "Then why can't you just tell me the truth?!"

The words hang in the air, and Taylor feels trapped. She knows Tree won't let it go, but there's no way she's opening up about her health right now. The silence stretches between them, thick with tension.

Tree, her voice softening but still firm: "I won't let you leave until you eat something. Please, just... try."

Taylor's eyes flash with anger, but there's also exhaustion behind them. She's tired—tired of the assumptions, tired of the pressure. So, out of sheer pettiness and frustration, she grabs the fork and takes a small bite of the food.

Taylor, sarcastic: "Happy now?"

But even as she chews, the familiar, unbearable nausea rises in her throat. It takes everything in her not to gag. Within seconds, the food hits her stomach like a brick, and she bolts from the room, barely making it to the bathroom in time to throw up.

The sound of retching echoes through the house, and Tree's heart sinks. She stands frozen in the living room, unsure of what to do next. This isn't what she expected. She feels like she's losing control of the situation—of Taylor.

When Taylor emerges from the bathroom, she's pale and visibly shaken, her face etched with fatigue. She doesn't even glance at Tree as she walks past her, heading straight for her bedroom. Tree steps forward, trying to stop her.

Tree, quietly: "Taylor, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Taylor cuts her off, her voice cold: "You don't listen, Tree. You never listen."

With that, she disappears into her room, closing the door softly behind her.

Tree stands alone in the silence, guilt settling heavily in her chest. She wanted to help, but now she's only made things worse.

At a meeting the following morning, the tension between Taylor and Tree is palpable. Taylor sits across from her at the long conference table, but she doesn't make eye contact. Her responses to questions are clipped, and her usual warmth is gone. The rest of the team notices, exchanging worried glances, but no one dares to ask what's going on.

Tree, trying to break the ice, leans over during a break.

Tree, softly: "Taylor... about last night—"

Taylor, cutting her off, not even looking up from her notes: "It's fine."

But it isn't fine, and both of them know it. The unspoken wall between them has only grown taller.

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