blurred lines in a forbidden fairytale

{5} bitter reality

Taylor's POV:

I wake up to a pounding headache and a mouth as dry as sandpaper. Sunlight filters through the blinds, far too bright, and I instinctively pull the covers over my head, trying to block it out. But the pain doesn't go away. It's like someone is drilling right between my eyes, and every pulse sends a wave of nausea rolling through me.

I roll onto my side, and my stomach churns violently. I close my eyes, focusing on breathing, but the memories start coming back, clear and sharp, like needles. The club. The drinks. The dancing. And then, Travis.

I remember everything—his hand on my hip, his mouth against mine, the way we stumbled into the bathroom, laughing and breathless. The thrill of it, the heat, the way my heart raced, not just from him but from the reckless abandon, the feeling of finally letting go. And then, the regret that followed, like a wave crashing over me too late.

The panic of bolting from the bathroom, pushing past people until I could barely breathe. I can still feel the cold air as Blake helped me into a cab, the relief mixing with the growing realization of what I'd just done.

I pull myself up, clutching my head as the room tilts. My throat is parched, and my body feels like it's made of lead.

It's a Saturday—I should be relieved, but instead, the familiar weight presses down on me. I force myself out of bed, my legs shaky, and stumble into the bathroom.

The mirror is unforgiving. My reflection stares back at me, eyes puffy and bloodshot, mascara smudged beneath them, lips chapped. My hair is tangled, and my skin looks pale, almost sallow. I look... wrong. Messy, swollen. It's like the night has seeped into me, a reminder of every mistake and every bad choice I made. My hand instinctively reaches up to pinch at the skin on my stomach, pressing against the soft flesh there. It's too much—everything feels like too much.

I turn away, splashing cold water on my face, but it doesn't wash away the feeling of heaviness. The lingering taste of alcohol mixes with the bile in my throat. I try to shake it off, to focus on the numbness I've perfected over the years, but it isn't working.

My body feels wrong, heavy, like every drink I had last night is weighing me down, showing up in the way my clothes cling too tightly. I close my eyes, counting the calories I know I consumed. The drinks, the shots, the late-night slice of pizza Blake insisted on, and I feel the guilt clawing its way up my throat.

In the kitchen, I grab a glass and fill it with water, trying to ignore the way my hands tremble. I force myself to sip slowly, feeling it hit my stomach like lead. I should eat something to help with the hangover, but the thought makes me feel queasy. I open the fridge, scanning the shelves—a carton of almond milk, a few apples, plain yogurt. The sight of it all makes my stomach twist. The idea of calories on top of last night's mistakes feels unbearable.

I shut the fridge door, leaning against the counter. The hunger gnaws at me, but I push it down, like I've done for years. I tell myself I don't deserve to eat, not after last night. Not when I've already ruined everything.

I stare at my phone on the counter, dreading what I might find. I can barely look at it, my heart pounding as I imagine texts from Travis, from Blake. I grab the device, my breath catching as I unlock it.
A few messages from Blake light up the screen:

Blake: Hey, are you feeling okay?
Blake: Let me know if you need anything, Tay.
Blake: Call me when you wake up.

I swallow the lump in my throat, feeling a mix of gratitude and shame. Blake's always there, always looking out for me. And I hate that I keep letting him down. I type back a quick response: