THE PROPHECY || t.s.

00. yes, i got your letter

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Emails are stupid. 

Well, at least that's what I think half the time. 

I like the fact that it's supposed to be a more convenient way of writing a letter to someone; you don't have to wait for weeks on end to get a response. And of course, you don't have to ruin your hand by scribbling pages upon pages if you want to tell the person that you're writing to a lot of different things. Plus, generally speaking, emails are free, and snail mail always costs at least a little bit of money. 

But the way that emails have been set up nowadays is pretty poorly done, in my opinion. You get thousands of them a day, and you have to sort through all of the individual advertisements and spam emails for the few really good ones. Then you have to sort through those, too, to find the ones from people you want to talk to and the ones that you don't want to open just yet, because they're from work and you don't really want to be working at that moment.

Maybe that's just me. Maybe most people in the world want to open their work emails right away so that they can file them away and not open them again. I think I used to be like that—at least, somewhat. But recently, all I've wanted to do was push away anything in relation to work before it even got started.

It's not that I hate my job—of course, I love it more than anything else. If I really hated it, I wouldn't have begged my mom to let me start writing my own songs instead of performing cover songs, and I wouldn't have begged her to let me have a chance at a solo career, instead of continuing to perform with Echo Heart, the band that she somehow got me to successfully audition for when I was twelve.

I scrolled through my inbox, trying to filter out the millions of spam emails that I was getting from the fan mail that my publicist, Becca, would forward to me when she thought it was worth seeing. I normally loved getting to read fan letters, but in the past months, it had just started to feel overwhelming to have millions of emails from strangers sitting in my inbox. I knew that if they'd gotten there in the first place, Becca had read them and knew that they'd be safe for me to read, but it still felt off.

Still, I felt like I would have been a bad person if I deleted all of the emails—even if my mom would agree with that sort of a decision. I decided to move them to a folder, creatively labeled "Unopened Fan Emails," and keep going, because I knew I wouldn't be allowed to move from my seat until I'd actually done some legitimate work. Most of the emails seemed to be things I'd talk to my mom about later; new producers that wanted to work with me, up-and-coming concert venues that wanted to see if I'd perform there, things like that. Only after I'd scrolled for about fifteen minutes did I see something that peaked my interest.

From: Tree Paine
To: Becca Hartman (re. Starling Skye Silver)

I wasn't normally one to recognize names of the people that slid into my inbox, and I definitely wasn't normally super creepy, but I felt like everyone with at least half of a brain in the music industry knew who Tree Paine was. The name on its own was something that someone could easily pass by, but I'd been a Taylor Swift fan for far too long to ignore the name of the redhead that I knew to be her publicist. Pushing my confusing feelings about work to the side, I eagerly clicked on the email, part of me wondering why on earth Taylor Swift's publicist was emailing me.

Hi Starling Skye (and Becca)!

Hope you're doing well. Taylor is a huge fan of your work and was wondering if you would like a seat in the VIP section at one of her shows for The Eras Tour in Los Angeles, California. She'd love to have you there and is more than willing to accommodate based on whatever day works best for you. Thank you in advance for your prompt response, we look forward to hearing back from you!