Blurred lines in a forbidden fairytale [Taylor x OC]

{54} colliding fates

Aurora's POV:

The morning light filters through the thin curtains, pale and cold, spilling across the room in soft stripes. I sit up in bed, careful not to disturb Sina, who's curled up on her side, her arm draped lazily over my waist. Her hair is a messy halo on the pillow, and for a moment, I just watch her sleep. It's peaceful, enviable even. But I can't stay here.
Sliding out from under the sheets, I grab my hoodie from the floor and pull it over my head. The air in the apartment feels stale, heavy, and I need to shake it off. In the kitchen, I fish an energy drink out of the fridge—a cheap brand I've been living off lately—and crack it open. The hiss of carbonation is almost too loud in the quiet.

Balcony mornings are a ritual now, though I can't say I'm proud of it. I step outside and immediately light a cigarette, the first of the day, and take a long drag. The city hums below me, not quite awake but not asleep either. A few cars pass, and somewhere down the block, someone's dog is barking its head off. It's mundane, grounding, and for a moment, I almost feel like I'm part of it all.
The cigarette burns faster than I expect, and soon I'm stubbing it out in the overflowing ashtray on the ledge. I sigh, finishing the last sip of my energy drink before heading back inside. Sina hasn't moved. She is a heavy sleeper. She doesn't officially live in my apartment but I don't remember the last time she actually went home.

I toss the empty can into the trash and head to my room to get dressed and to brush my teeth. Ripped black jeans, a white tank top, and my favorite flannel—a soft, oversized one that I've had since I was a teenager—come together without much thought. I run a brush through my short, brown hair but other than that leave it just the way it is.
Grabbing my bag and camera, I'm out the door and heading to the bus stop within minutes. The streets are alive now, bustling with people heading to work, to school, to whatever keeps them moving forward. I wonder, not for the first time, if they feel as restless as I do.

The bus pulls up with a groan, and I climb on, finding a window seat near the back. The air smells faintly of old upholstery and someone's too-strong cologne. Plugging in my AirPods, I let out a small breath of relief. Noise is easier to handle when I can drown it out.

As soon as Spotify opens, my thumb hovers over my usual playlist, but something catches my eye. A face I'd recognize anywhere—soft blue eyes and addicting red lips.

Taylor Alison Swift.

The name sits there on my screen like a punch to the gut. Her debut album, the one I didn't even know existed until this very moment. It's right here in front of me, staring back like a challenge.
My chest tightens, my heart thrumming against my ribs as if it's trying to escape. My thumb trembles over the screen, but I don't press play. Not yet. Instead, I stare at the album title, Haunted.

It's all too much. The bus is moving, but I'm frozen in place, barely able to breathe. Her voice is a memory I've tried to bury for years, and now, suddenly, it's everywhere—on my screen, in my head, and maybe, I realize with a sinking heart, still in my soul.

My eyes linger on the album cover—her hair like flames, her lips painted red, and her gaze half-lidded and distant, as if she's staring through the lens and into some private memory. Into me.

The bus jerks to a stop, but I barely notice. My heart pounds, blood roaring in my ears. The title alone wraps its fingers around my ribcage and squeezes. It feels like the ghost of everything I've tried to bury clawing its way to the surface.

I finally press play.

The opening notes of Delicate hit, soft and achingly familiar, and I close my eyes. It's the song she played for me on our first date in that abandoned factory.
Her voice comes in, warm and intimate, like she's singing directly into my ear. I'm instantly transported to a hundred moments—Taylor lying beside me in the quiet of her apartment, humming softly as she wrote lyrics in her journal. Her fingers brushing mine as she played with a strand of my hair, her lips quirking into that lopsided smile that always undid me.