If Pain Is Part of It

Two Weeks LaterMay 30th; 2023Taylor Swift's Point of ViewI'm dissected from every angle. Every expression, every gesture, every breath I take — examined under a microscope that never blinks. And under that microscope, I'm always doing something wrong.

I visit children in hospitals and I'm accused of doing it for the cameras. I tip waiters in hundreds and it's labeled performative. I donate millions to causes I care about and somehow, it's still not enough. Or it's too much. Or it's the wrong cause.

When I do good, it's twisted into something self-serving. When I mess up, it's weaponized. So it came as no surprise that the moment I told the truth — the real truth about abandoning my daughter, everything exploded. My tour was postponed. Not out of solidarity, not even out of crisis management. It was postponed because no one wants to watch a woman sing about healing and growth after she just admitted to walking away from her own child.

I've been canceled. Brutally. Publicly. Swifties are embarrassed to call themselves that now. Fan pages vanished overnight. People burned their merch, posted videos of smashing vinyl they once cherished. Venom spilled across every platform, every headline, every group chat I used to be adored in. And you know what? Maybe I deserve it. Maybe this is what accountability really looks like — not applause for honesty, but exile for the damage done.

I wanted to explain myself. To soften the blow. To give context, excuses — say that the father let me leave, that he gave me an out with no strings attached. That I was eighteen, terrified, in over my head. That he made it easy. That he made it seem like it was okay.

But what would that do? What would any of it change? It doesn't matter who opened the door I still walked through it. I still left and now the world knows.

It didn't take long for the vultures to circle. Reporters found June and Travis less than twenty-four hours after I signed the lease on the condo. They showed up while they were still moving in — cameras flashing, questions flying, microphones shoved into their faces like weapons. She's a sick kid, and they treated her like a scandal. I made this mess. I gave them the scent of blood. And now, they won't stop until they tear it all apart.

Today is June's first day of treatment. She's letting me come. She didn't say much about it — just told Travis to tell me what time, what floor. No pleasantries. No confirmation of why she even wanted me there. But I know why she's allowing it. This isn't about support or healing or second chances. It's a punishment.

She wants me to see it — to sit beside her while tubes are pushed into her veins, while poison drips into her bloodstream in the name of hope. She wants me to watch every wince, every tremble, every flicker of pain.

She wants me to see what she's lived through while I was adored by millions. While I stood in sparkles on stage and sang songs about heartbreaks I could walk away from. While I was applauded, protected, worshipped — she was shrinking. Suffering.

She wants me to carry the weight of it now and maybe I deserve to. Maybe I deserve to sit in that too-white hospital chair and feel helpless. To watch the nurse hang the bag of medication and not know if it's saving her or hurting her. Maybe this is her way of saying, Here. This is what it cost. I'll sit there. I'll sit there and take it because she's right.

When we walk into the hospital, the first thing they do is check her vitals. Blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels. She doesn't say a word. Just sits there while the nurse goes about her routine, like she's done this a hundred times before and she probably has.

Then she steps onto the scale. 109 pounds.

I blink, glance at the number again just to make sure I read it right. She's 5'10". That's not a short girl, and that's not a lot of weight. Her frame is too tall for how small she's gotten. I can see it in her arms, in the way her clothes hang off her like she borrowed them from someone bigger. She stares straight ahead like the number doesn't matter. Maybe to her it doesn't anymore. But it matters to me.

"We're going to start with some blood draws," the nurse says gently, glancing between the three of us. "If you want to follow me to the lab."

June nods once without looking up. She slides off the exam table with the kind of practiced ease that tells me she's done this before—more times than anyone her age should have to. Her turban slips slightly, and she tugs it back into place with a tired flick of her fingers.

I follow a few steps behind as we trail down the hallway, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly. June walks slowly, but not because she's nervous. It's fatigue. You can see it in her shoulders, in the way her legs move like she's wading through water.

The nurse tries to make small talk, something about how fast the week is flying by, but June doesn't answer. She keeps her eyes ahead, like if she doesn't make eye contact, no one can see how far gone she already feels.

We step into the lab. The chair in the corner is already prepped with a clean pad and a tourniquet laid across the armrest. June sits down wordlessly and rolls up her sleeve. She still hasn't looked at me once.

The phlebotomist gets to work quickly, pulling on gloves with a practiced snap before tying the tourniquet tight around June's upper arm. Her fingers prod gently, searching for a good vein. June doesn't even blink. Her face is blank, unreadable—like she's somewhere else entirely. When the needle pierces her skin, she doesn't flinch. Not even a wince.

I bite down hard on my lower lip, tasting blood. Watching someone draw blood from my daughter while I do nothing feels... wrong. I want to say something, offer comfort, but what could I say that wouldn't sound hollow?

The vials fill, one after another, deep crimson spinning into glass. The phlebotomist hums softly to herself, either unaware of the tension in the room or choosing to ignore it.

Once the last vial is full, the needle comes out. June reaches for the cotton ball before the tech can even offer it and presses it to the crook of her arm, like she's done this a thousand times. She slaps a plain beige band-aid over it with a little too much force, then rolls her sleeve back down like nothing happened.

June is assigned a treatment bay near the window, separated from the others by a pale blue curtain that offers more illusion of privacy than actual seclusion. The room is sterile, but there are touches of softness—crocheted blankets donated by volunteers, a shelf of used books, a whiteboard with a smiley face drawn in dry erase marker.

She moves slowly, but without help, settling into the recliner with a practiced ease that makes my chest ache. Travis pulls over a chair beside her, and I hesitate before choosing one across from them, feeling like I've stepped into a family I left behind.

A nurse enters with a tray, scanning June's bracelet and adjusting the IV pole.

"The drip's going to be slow," she says, checking the bag as she hangs it. "About 30 to 90 minutes, depending on how she tolerates it. Just let me know if you feel anything unusual, sweetheart—nausea, pain, chills, anything at all."

June nods wordlessly.

The medication begins its slow descent through the tubing, clear and unremarkable, yet heavy with meaning. I watch it drip steadily, as if each drop is a second in a clock I can't stop. This is real. This is happening.

Travis leans back slightly, trying to relax, but his knee bounces. June pulls her blanket tighter around her. I fold my hands in my lap and don't know what to do with them. Every part of me itches to speak, to apologize again, to fill the silence.

"This is going to work. Don't worry, Dad." June offers him a small, tired smile as she reaches over and places her free hand gently on his knee.

Travis looks at her, his eyes red at the corners, glassy with unshed tears. He covers her hand with his own, holding it tightly like he's afraid she'll slip away if he doesn't. His voice is low, strained. "I know. I know it will. It's just... it's so scary."

He exhales slowly, like he's been holding his breath since the moment they stepped into the hospital. His thumb moves back and forth over her knuckles. "I'd do anything to take this away from you. Anything."

June doesn't say anything right away. She just leans her head back against the chair, still watching him with that faint smile. It doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You already are," she murmurs. "You're here. You've always been here."

Travis swallows hard and looks away for a second, like the weight of her words might crush him if he holds her gaze too long. Off to the side, I watch quietly, hands still folded in my lap. This is their moment—one I was never part of. One I can't claim. But I don't look away. I want to remember it. Because it's the kind of love you can't fake.

Travis shifts in his seat beside June, angling toward her like they've done this a hundred times before. There's a natural rhythm between them, something built slowly over years I wasn't there for. He rests his arm on the back of the chair and speaks softly, his voice colored with nostalgia.

"Hey, remember when you were nine and tried to make me eat one of your 'experimental' grilled cheese sandwiches? With... what was it? Gummy worms?"

June's eyes stay on the IV drip for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the corner of her mouth lifts into a faint smirk. "It was a phase. You were supposed to lie and say it was good."

"I did lie," Travis grins. "Then I immediately threw it away when you weren't looking."

"You put it in your sock drawer," she fires back without missing a beat. "I found it two weeks later when I was looking for quarters."

They both laugh. It's quiet, but the kind that warms a room.

And I just sit there, silent. Watching. Trying to find a way in.

"I used to make weird food combinations when I was a kid too," I offer, trying to keep my voice light, easy. "I think I once dipped pizza in chocolate pudding."

June finally turns toward me, her face hardening as our eyes meet. Her voice is flat. "We're not bonding."

It lands like a slap. I flinch, not visibly—I've learned how to hide that—but something tightens in my chest and I nod quickly. "Right. Sorry."

The moment stretches into silence. I force my gaze to the floor, feeling it all closing in again—that ache of being the outsider in a room that should belong to me too.

Travis clears his throat, trying to recover the moment. "Anyway, point is—you've always been weird."

"And you've always been a liar," June quips, glancing back at him. "It was a culinary masterpiece."

They both start laughing again, and it stings more than I expected. Watching them like this—easy, effortless, theirs—it makes my throat tighten. It makes me feel like I'm mourning something I never got to have. They're close. Really close. And I... I'm just someone sitting in a chair across the room, pretending I'm not a stranger.

June's face suddenly twists, her mouth pulling tight, her brows knitting together. Her hand clamps over her stomach.

"I'm gonna vomit," she mutters, voice strained and panicked.

Travis is on his feet in a second, scanning the room. "I'll get you an emesis bag—just hold on—"

I push my chair back and stand, fumbling to help, but it's too late.

June leans forward, her body curling in on itself as a violent heave rips through her. The sound is raw and involuntary. Then it hits the floor—thin, watery vomit splashing onto the sterile tiles with a sickening smack.

"Oh, June," Travis breathes, crouching beside her but careful not to touch her just yet. She's trembling.

A nurse must have heard the commotion because she rushes in almost immediately, snapping on gloves and grabbing towels and cleaning supplies. She's efficient, clearly used to this, but it doesn't make it any easier to watch.

I stand there frozen, useless. My heart is hammering against my ribs, but I can't seem to move. Guilt spreads through me like wildfire. She's so pale, hunched over and shaking, strands of sweat-damp threads peeking out from beneath her headwrap.

"I'm sorry," June mumbles hoarsely, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

"Don't apologize," Travis says, soft but firm. He grabs a clean tissue from the tray and gently presses it into her hand. "You don't ever need to say sorry for this."

I wish I could say something—anything—that would matter. That wouldn't make her flinch. But I know if I open my mouth right now, it'll just feel like another performance. Another line from someone who hasn't earned the right to speak. So I stay quiet. I grip the back of my chair until my knuckles turn white and let the moment pass without forcing myself into it.

"Nausea and vomiting has been known to be a common side effect of the treatment," the nurse says casually, like this is just another Tuesday, as she peels off her gloves and tosses a bundle of soiled towels into a biohazard bin. Her voice is calm, practiced. Like she's done this a hundred times—and she probably has.

June leans back against the recliner, wiping the corner of her mouth with a fresh tissue. Her face is pale and clammy, and there's a rawness in her eyes that makes my stomach twist. Then she looks at me—really looks at me for the first time since we walked in.

"This is what you've been missing out on, Taylor." Her voice is brittle, but laced with venom. "Hope it was worth it."

The words hit harder than I expect. I flinch. There's no screaming, no tantrum. Just cold, sharp truth spoken like a knife being slid under the skin. I can't answer. What could I possibly say? That I'm sorry? That I didn't know it would be like this? That I was young and scared?

None of that matters now—not to her. Not when she's the one tethered to a plastic tube, sick to her stomach, and I'm the one who got to walk away all those years ago.

She turns her head like she's done with me, but then she speaks again—without looking.

"You still have that tour? The one that's 'postponed,' not canceled?" Her voice is flat, calculated. "Still planning to pick it back up once the PR storm calms down?"

I swallow hard. "I... I don't know."

"You don't know?" she repeats, then finally looks at me, eyes narrowed. "Because I know. I know exactly how this works. You drop your little confessional, cry on camera, maybe do a podcast or two where you talk about how 'hard' this all was for you—and boom. Redemption arc. Right?"

"That's not what I'm doing," I say, but the words sound thin, almost pathetic in the sterile light of this room. "I'm here. I'm trying to show up."

She lets out a humorless laugh and glances at Travis, who's quietly wiping her hands with a cool washcloth.

"You showed up the second the cameras stopped loving you," she says. "Not a second before. You think that's brave? That's not love. That's guilt. And it's too damn late for guilt."

I open my mouth to respond, to defend myself but then I stop. Because she's right. So instead, I just sit back in the chair, cross my arms tightly, and take it.

"Bug, I know you're angry but maybe be a little nicer?" Travis says gently, reaching over to brush a stray hair from her forehead.

June scoffs and turns her head. "Don't call me that right now."

"Okay," he says, backing off immediately but not looking away from her. "I just... I know this isn't easy. But maybe let her try."

June doesn't respond right away. Her jaw tightens. Her eyes glisten, not from tears but from the strain of holding them back.

"She had fifteen years to try," she mutters finally, voice raw. "Fifteen years where I scraped by, where you worked two jobs and traded your nice SUV for that crappy truck just to afford my meds. And now she wants to try because what? Her image is falling apart?"

"That's not why I'm here," I say quietly.

She turns to look at me, expression hard. "You keep saying that like it's supposed to make it better."

"June," Travis warns, gently, again.

But she's not done.

"You don't get to show up now and be the good guy," she spits. "You don't get to sit in this chair like you earned it."

Silence stretches thick between us and all I can do is nod. Because she's right again. And I've got no defense left to offer.

The room is quiet again, except for the low hum of the IV pump and the soft beeping from a monitor behind June's recliner.

She crosses her arms, still scowling, but her hand stays on Travis's leg. She's angry, but she's not shutting me out completely.

I stay in my chair, hands folded tightly in my lap, trying not to shrink into myself. I let the silence stretch. Maybe she just needs space to breathe.

After a while, June speaks again—quieter this time.

"I remember the first time I had to get my blood drawn. I was thirteen. I kicked the nurse and tried to hide under the chairs in the waiting room."

Travis lets out a low laugh. "You slapped her too. Told me afterward she had it coming."

"I stand by it," she says, her mouth twitching just slightly. It's not a smile, not really, but it's something.

She still doesn't look at me, but her voice has lost some of its edge. "He told me you used to pass out at the sight of needles."

I blink, caught off guard. "I... did. Pretty dramatically."

"Well," she says, finally glancing at me, "good thing you're sitting down."

I smile faintly, holding onto the tiny thread she's offered. "You're braver than I ever was."

June shifts in her seat, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders. "You don't know me."

"I know that," I say gently. "I just want to."

She lets out a long breath, her expression unreadable. "Just don't expect some gold star for trying."

"I don't."

Another moment of silence passes. Then she shifts again, her shoulders relaxing just a little.

"You can stay," she says. "If you want."

My heart catches in my chest. "I want to."

—————Author's Note:

I want to swim but there's a flipping storm