Tayvis One-Shots

insecure

tw: self-harm

Taylor's POV

The photo was normal enough. 

Someone had posted a candid shot of me in a black cropped top and a miniskirt from a few days ago, smiling and holding Travis's hand as we left the restaurant.

But the caption? It wasn't kind.

"When did Taylor Swift start letting herself go? That tummy is screaming for help."

The comments weren't much better.

"I thought celebs were supposed to stay in shape."
"Travis could do better. She looks bloated."
"Love her music, but yikes, girl, invest in a trainer."

The words cut deeper than I wanted to admit. My fingers hovered over my phone, scrolling through the comments, each one worse than the last. They clawed at my insecurities, dragging them to the surface until I could feel them suffocating me.

I shut my phone off, but the words lingered. They echoed in my head as I walked to the bathroom, as I stood in front of the mirror, tugging up my shirt to reveal my stomach.

The reflection staring back at me felt foreign.

I pinched at the soft skin of my belly, the way it curved instead of lying flat. My thighs, pressed together, looked wider than I wanted. My chest tightened as I turned to the side, trying to find an angle where I didn't hate what I saw.

But I couldn't.

"You're disgusting."
"Travis deserves better."
"Why can't you just be enough?"

The tears came fast and hot, spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them. I stumbled backward, gripping the edge of the counter to steady myself. My breathing was shallow, my chest aching with every ragged inhale.

I didn't know how to make it stop.

My gaze fell to the drawer, and I opened it, looking for something to ease my pain.

The razor was small. Harmless, really. Or at least, it looked that way as it sat in the drawer, nestled between toothpaste tubes and hair ties.

I didn't think about it much when I picked it up. My hands trembled, my breaths shallow and quick, but my mind was oddly still, focused only on the ache in my chest, the voices in my head that wouldn't shut up.

"Too fat."
"Too wide."
"Too ugly."

I slid to the floor, my back pressed against the cold bathroom wall. I pulled up the hem of my sweatpants, exposing my thighs. They were pale and soft and littered with flaws I couldn't unsee. I pressed the razor to my skin, hesitating for a brief second before dragging it across. The sting was sharp, biting, but it wasn't enough to drown out the screaming in my head.

Another cut. This one deeper. My breathing quickened as a thin line of red welled up and trickled down my leg, painting the pale canvas I despised so much.

"What's the point?"
"You'll never look like you should."
"He deserves better."

The thoughts screamed louder, the pressure in my chest unbearable. I dragged the blade again, harder this time, desperate for the release. The sting became a burn, but I barely noticed. The cuts began to overlap, lines crisscrossing in a frantic pattern as I moved faster, my hands shaking uncontrollably.

I wasn't even thinking anymore. Just cutting. Over and over. My breathing came in gasps now, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst.

The blood smeared, staining my fingers, my clothes, the tiles beneath me. I pressed harder, each cut deeper than the last, my tears falling freely now. My chest heaved, and I felt dizzy, but I didn't stop.