blurred lines in a forbidden fairytale

prologue

September 2016
Taylor Swift's POV:

The city never sleeps. That's one of those clichés you hear about New York, but it's true. Even at dawn, there's the hum of cars, people already rushing somewhere, and the distant echo of a siren bouncing off the buildings. I'm standing by my window, coffee mug in hand, and it's almost easy to imagine I'm just like everyone else—just another person watching the world wake up.

It's the first day of a new school year. I should be excited; I used to be. The start of each year used to feel like opening a new book—fresh pages, untold stories, a chance to connect. I tell myself that's how I feel, that I can be the teacher my students need me to be. After all, I've done this for four years now. But the truth is, there's this heaviness sitting in my chest, a quiet dread I can't shake off. I take a sip of my coffee, but the bitter taste is no comfort. I'm not even hungry.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the window's reflection. Tired eyes, a forced smile. I'm 26, and I know people would say I'm supposed to be in the prime of my life. Good job, my own apartment, friends who check in every so often. By all accounts, I should have it all together. And maybe I do—at least, that's what I let everyone believe.

The truth? I've been hiding this...thing for so long now, it's become like second nature. My little secret. It's a whisper that follows me everywhere, tugging at me in the early mornings, at the dinner table, when I stare at my reflection and pick apart every detail. Some days, it feels like I'm drowning in it, but no one knows. I've made sure of that. They only know Ms. Swift, the teacher who loves books. And that's the way it has to stay.

The alarm on my phone buzzes, pulling me out of my head. I need to get moving. I set the coffee down, barely touched, and grab the black blouse I laid out last night. Loose, simple, comfortable—something safe. I take a deep breath and try to put on the face they'll expect from me: calm, confident, put-together. It's just another day.
As I head for the door, I try to hold onto that thought. It's just another day. A new year, a new group of students, and one more chance to keep my secrets hidden.

I step out into the hallway, locking my apartment behind me. The air smells faintly like someone's burnt toast, and I feel a knot of tension loosen ever so slightly. It's the normalcy of it, the routines that make up everyone's mornings in this building. The couple down the hall arguing about who left the lights on. The college kid rushing past with his headphones in, backpack half-zipped. In these moments, I can almost convince myself that I'm part of it, that I fit right in.

But then there's that flutter in my chest, the familiar feeling that something is off, that I'm faking it. I grip my bag a little tighter as I make my way down the stairs. Focus on what's ahead. Get to school. Take attendance. Dive into the syllabus. Keep my head above water.

Outside, the street is already alive. Vendors are setting up carts, the smell of hot pretzels mixing with the cool, early-autumn air. The subway entrance looms a block away, and I quicken my pace, joining the river of commuters. I focus on the rhythm of my footsteps, the sway of the bag against my side, anything to keep my mind occupied. Anything to drown out the nagging thoughts that have followed me since I woke up.

I try not to think about how my blouse hangs on my frame. How the jeans that fit just right last year feel different now. I know I should eat something before I get to school, but the thought alone makes my stomach tighten. Besides, if I leave it until lunch, it'll be easier to pass it off as just a busy morning.

When the train arrives, I step into the packed car and grab a pole. The car sways as we start moving, and I watch the city blur past through the windows. A part of me can't help but wonder what it would be like to be one of the other passengers, the ones who aren't carrying secrets. People who have their morning routines, their jobs, their goals—and nothing clawing at them from the inside. But then, I remind myself, no one's life is as perfect as it looks from the outside. Everyone is carrying something. Mine just happens to be invisible.

As we approach my stop, I take a deep breath. In a few minutes, I'll be walking through the doors of the school, greeting students, and pretending everything is fine. It's a performance I've perfected over the years. No one notices if you keep your voice steady, if you smile in the right moments, and if you know exactly how to steer the conversation back to them when they ask how you're doing. "I'm great. How was your summer?"

The train slows, and I move with the crowd as we step off. The school building looms up ahead, brick and ivy-covered, with banners announcing the new school year in bright colors. I can already see groups of students clustered outside, laughing, catching up, and checking their phones. They're in that in-between stage—still technically kids, but close enough to adulthood that they carry themselves with that mix of confidence and uncertainty.
I wonder what kind of class I'll get this year. I wonder which of them will be the ones to lean forward, genuinely interested, and which will be the ones who stare at their desks, wishing they were anywhere else. It's a gamble every year. I remind myself that this is why I chose teaching—because despite everything else, there's a thrill in those moments when a student's eyes light up, when they get it, when they care.

I walk through the entrance, my heels clicking on the polished floors. The hallways are chaotic—students finding their lockers, teachers corralling kids to their homerooms, and the sound of overlapping conversations bouncing off the walls. I force myself to straighten my back, lift my chin, and put on the mask I've perfected. Confident. Approachable. Ms. Swift, who has it all together.

I step into my classroom, taking a moment to breathe in the quiet before the students filter in. The desks are arranged in neat rows, the chalkboard clean and waiting. For a few moments, I let myself feel the calm that comes from being in my space, the one place I have control. I arrange my materials, set my planner open on the desk, and take a quick look at the clock. Fifteen minutes until the bell rings.

When the door opens, the first few students trickle in, and I flash them a warm smile. "Good morning! Welcome. Grab any seat you like."

They nod, some shyly, some with a grin, and start to settle in. As the room fills up, I mentally tick off my routine. Welcome speech. Syllabus overview. Quick icebreaker. I've done this enough times to know how to fill the hour, how to keep things light and engaging.
But then, as I'm glancing over my class list, something shifts. A small voice in the back of my mind whispers, It's going to be okay. And for just a moment, I almost believe it.