He's Like Art. Terrible Art. But Still, Art

One Week LaterDecember 8th; 2024Taylor Swift's Point of ViewThe Christmas music blares through the speakers again, the cheery jingles of "Jingle Bells" or some other godforsaken holiday tune making my head throb. It's unbearable. I wish I could close my ears, block out the sound entirely, but here I am, stuck in this diner, forced to hear it over and over until January. Every note feels like a stab in my chest, a reminder of everything that's wrong in my life right now.

I'm standing behind this counter for hours, wearing a fake smile and pretending everything's fine, hoping beyond hope that I can make a decent tip. But at the end of the day, it feels like all I'm doing is scraping by, getting paid five bucks an hour to be at the mercy of people who don't even care about the struggles I'm facing.

And everyone around me is so damn happy. Every customer that walks through the door, they're all talking about how amazing this time of year is, how their families are perfect, how everything is just so wonderful. I want to scream, tell them to shut up, that they don't know what it's like to struggle like I do. To be alone, to have the world weigh on you in ways you can't escape. To have a child and no support.

Instead, I just nod and smile, do my job, because what else can I do? The world's in its bubble of denial, pretending everything is perfect when, deep down, it's not. I'm living the reality they refuse to see. Every hour I stand here, wishing I could escape, wishing I could stop pretending that everything's okay. But no, December insists on reminding me of everything I don't have.

"You look like shit," Angela says, walking past me with a stack of plates piled high, the clatter of silverware almost drowning out her words.

"Thanks. I feel like shit," I mutter, trying to keep my voice steady as I cough into my elbow. The tickle in my throat has been nagging at me for hours, and I'm sure I look just as miserable as I feel. My eyes are heavy, the cold spreading through me, but I can't afford to slow down. The bills aren't going to pay themselves, and Zoë needs more than just a roof over her head.

Angela doesn't respond, but I catch the way she glances at me from the corner of my eye, the sympathy she tries to hide. It's not her fault. It's not anyone's fault. I'm just... exhausted. Physically, emotionally, mentally. This constant grind, the endless smiling, the pretending everything's fine—it's all catching up to me.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand, hoping no one notices the way my shoulders slump. I force myself to stand straighter, to mask the sickness and the bitterness that's been eating at me. There's no room for weakness in here. Not in this job. Not in this life.

Monica comes up to me, her steps light, but her gaze sharp. She tilts her head slightly as she takes in my appearance. "You look like shit."

"Is it just me, or have compliments gone downhill around here?" I ask, forcing a tired grin, even though I know it's barely a smile.

Monica doesn't return the joke. She's already reaching out, pressing the back of her hand against my forehead, her fingers cold against my skin. Her eyes widen in surprise, and the concern on her face is too much for me to ignore. "Jesus Christ, you need to go home."

I close my eyes for a second, feeling a wave of dizziness hit me. The exhaustion, the ache in my body, the fever that's been burning behind my eyes—it's all too much. But I can't. Zoë is waiting for me, and there's no one else to pick up the slack. There's no sick days in this kind of job. I force myself to stand a little taller, but it feels like I'm holding up the weight of the world on my shoulders.

"I'm fine," I lie, though I can feel the tension in my voice. "I can handle it."

Monica doesn't seem convinced. She gives me a skeptical look before shaking her head. "You're a damn mess. But I'm not your mother. Just don't expect me to clean up after you if you pass out or something."

"I'll survive," I mutter, but it doesn't sound convincing even to me.

The bell above the diner door jingles, and I glance up, spotting a couple of customers strolling in. I shrug, grabbing a few menus as I move toward them, prepared to seat them at one of the booths. Instead, they bypass me entirely, heading straight for the bar stools. I suppress a sigh, shifting gears.

"What can I get you?" I ask, my voice flat as I flip open my order pad, gripping the stubby pencil like it's the only thing tethering me to this moment.

"Taylor?"

That voice—it cuts through the air like a jagged knife, slicing straight through the years I've spent trying to forget. My body goes rigid. I don't need to look up to know who it is. My chest tightens, the pencil shaking slightly in my hand.

I set the pad down carefully, forcing myself to keep my composure. My eyes stay glued to the counter. "What are you doing here?" My voice is low, deliberate, but I can't hide the edge beneath it.

"I'm hungry. Why else does one go to a restaurant?" His tone is light, almost teasing, as if we're old friends catching up and not...this.

I lift my head slowly, locking eyes with the man I've tried so hard to erase. Travis. He looks almost the same, except sharper somehow. More polished. The weight of his presence makes my stomach churn.

"Leave," I say, my voice steady, though my hands are trembling now. "And never come back."

He doesn't move, doesn't flinch. Instead, he leans slightly on the counter, his expression unreadable. "Taylor..." he starts, but I shake my head sharply, cutting him off.

"I mean it." My voice rises slightly, my pulse thundering in my ears. "You have no right to be here. No right to talk to me."

He scoffs, a sharp, bitter sound, and tosses the menu onto the counter like it's worthless. "I have no right?" he repeats, his tone incredulous, as if I'm the one out of line.

Something inside me snaps, the dam I've carefully built over the years bursting wide open. "You abandoned me!" The words erupt from my chest, louder than I intended, echoing in the quiet lull of the diner.

Travis leans back slightly, his jaw tightening, but he doesn't respond right away. His silence only fuels my anger.

"You walked away, Travis!" I continue, my voice trembling with a mix of fury and pain. "Four years together, and the second I told you I was pregnant, you disappeared. Like I meant nothing. Like Zoë meant nothing."

His eyes flicker, but he keeps his expression carefully neutral. "I didn't—"

"Don't you dare say you didn't mean to," I cut him off, jabbing a finger in his direction. "You made your choice. You left. You stayed gone. And now, what? You show up here like nothing happened? Like you're entitled to anything?"

He opens his mouth as if to argue, but I'm not finished. "You didn't just leave me, Travis. You left her. She doesn't even know you exist! Do you have any idea what that's like? To watch your daughter grow up and know the man who should've been there couldn't be bothered?"

His face pales slightly at that, but I'm too far gone to care. My hands are trembling, my chest heaving as years of buried resentment spill out all at once. The diner feels too small, too suffocating, but I don't stop. I can't.

"You don't get to waltz in here and pretend you're someone you're not," I finish, my voice quieter now, laced with raw emotion.

For a moment, the only sound in the diner is the faint hum of the Christmas music still playing overhead. Travis looks at me, his expression unreadable, but I refuse to look away. Let him see what he's done. Let him feel it.

"Mama...loud," Zoë's small voice breaks through the haze of my anger, soft but trembling.

I whip around, my heart sinking as I see her sitting on the stool, her wide eyes glistening with unshed tears. She's sucking her thumb—a telltale sign she's scared—and her tiny body looks so fragile, bundled up in her too-small butterfly sweater.

"Oh, Zo Zo," I whisper, my voice breaking. Guilt floods through me as I rush to her side. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

I unbuckle her from the stool as quickly as my shaky hands will allow, scooping her up into my arms. She clings to me instantly, burying her face in my neck with a quiet sniffle.

"Shhhhh, it's okay, baby," I murmur, rocking her gently back and forth. Her small frame is warm against me, and I can feel her trembling ease little by little. I press a kiss to her temple, stroking her hair. "I'm so, so sorry. Mama didn't mean to yell. It's okay now, I promise."

Her little fingers clutch my shirt, and I can feel her tears dampening my collar. I close my eyes, holding her tighter, trying to will away the guilt gnawing at my chest.

Behind me, Travis shifts awkwardly, but I don't spare him a glance. Right now, Zoë is all that matters. I rub her back in slow circles, whispering soothing words as the Christmas music drifts faintly through the diner, trying to drown out the heavy silence between us all.

Just as Zoë's trembling begins to subside, the soft murmur of voices around the diner suddenly crescendos. I glance up, my heart sinking as I see heads turning and phones being pulled out.

"It's him," someone whispers loudly. "Travis Kelce."

Within seconds, fans are swarming him, their excitement palpable. A teenage girl clutching a phone practically squeals. "Oh my God, it is him! Can I get a selfie?"

Another customer, a man in his thirties, stands up from his booth and approaches with a grin, holding out a napkin and a pen. "Big fan, man. Can I get an autograph?"

Travis, ever the charmer, obliges with a smirk and a nod. He leans slightly toward the girl for her photo, then scrawls his signature on the napkin, all while fielding questions with his usual ease.

"What brings you to a place like this?"

"How is the new season coming?"

I stand frozen, holding Zoë close, watching as the diner's attention shifts entirely to him. It's as if my outburst, my humiliation, my anger—all of it—never happened.

Monica, who was watching me moments ago with concern, is now at the edge of the crowd, grinning ear to ear. "Travis, my friend loves you," she gushes. "Do you mind signing something for her?"

The noise swirls around me like a storm, and I feel invisible. Zoë shifts in my arms, her little hands tugging on my collar. "Mama?" she whispers softly, her thumb still tucked in her mouth.

I force a shaky breath, grounding myself in her warmth. "It's okay, Zo Zo," I murmur. But the truth is, it's not.

Travis, the man who left me to fend for myself, is now basking in admiration from the same people who ignored me just minutes ago. It's a cruel twist of fate, and the resentment bubbling inside me threatens to boil over.

Clutching Zoë tightly, I retreat to the back of the diner, out of sight. The clamor continues behind me, but I don't care. Let them worship their hero. They don't know the truth.

I pace back and forth in the cramped storage room, Zoë still in my arms. She's calm now, but I can't stop my heart from racing. Every time I hear another excited voice shout his name from the dining area, my stomach twists.

"Mama?" Zoë's tiny voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.

"Yes, baby?" I say, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

"Why mad?"

I pause, my breath catching. What do I even say to that? She's only two—how can she understand that the man she just saw is the reason for so much of our struggle? The reason I work myself to the bone, why she's growing up in hand-me-downs and a dingy apartment.

I kiss her forehead, forcing a smile. "Mama's not mad, sweetheart. Just tired."

"Tired," she echoes, her thumb slipping back into her mouth.

I set her down on a nearby crate, giving her a small snack from my apron pocket to keep her occupied. My hands shake as I run them through my hair. I've never felt so torn. Part of me wants to march back out there, past the crowd of his adoring fans, and tell the truth—to scream at the top of my lungs about the man they idolize.

But the other part? It just wants to grab Zoë and leave. Walk out the door and never look back.

A soft knock at the door startles me. Before I can respond, Monica peeks her head in.

"Hey," she says cautiously, stepping inside. "You okay?"

I don't answer right away. My throat feels tight.

"He's still out there," she continues, her voice hesitant. "You know...taking pictures, signing stuff. He's not going anywhere anytime soon."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Of course he's not. Why would he? He loves the spotlight."

Monica shifts uncomfortably. "Look, I'm not saying what he did was right. But maybe...I don't know, maybe this is your chance to talk to him. Get some closure or something."

"Closure?" I repeat, the word tasting bitter in my mouth. "What's that going to do? Will it pay for the diapers I've been buying on my own for two years? Will it make up for all the nights Zoë cried because she didn't have a father to hold her?"

Monica looks down, fiddling with her apron. "No," she admits softly. "But maybe it'll give you some peace."

I shake my head, leaning back against the wall. "Peace doesn't pay the bills, Monica."

Before she can say anything else, Zoë pipes up from her crate. "Mama, I wanna go."

Her little voice slices through the tension like a knife, and I feel my resolve harden. She's right. We don't need to stay here, surrounded by people who don't understand, by him.

"Okay, baby," I say, scooping her up. "We're going."

I push past Monica, who steps aside without protest, her face a mixture of sympathy and worry.

As I walk back through the diner, I don't bother looking toward the crowd surrounding Travis. I keep my eyes on the exit, holding Zoë close, blocking out the chatter, the laughter, the flashes of cameras.

"Taylor!" Travis's voice calls after me, the sound cutting through the cold air. His footsteps grow louder as he closes the distance.

I whip around, clutching Zoë tighter in my arms. "What do you want?! Leave me alone!"

He stops a few feet away, his hands raised like he's trying to calm a wild animal. "She's beautiful," he says softly, his eyes on Zoë.

My heart twists, but I don't let him see it. "Screw you," I snap, turning away.

I take a couple of determined steps forward, but my body betrays me. The fever, the exhaustion—it all catches up at once. My vision swims, the world tilting beneath my feet.

"Mama?" Zoë's voice sounds far away, muffled, like it's coming through a tunnel.

I try to steady myself, but my knees give out. I feel myself falling, Zoë slipping from my grasp.

Before I hit the ground, strong arms catch me, breaking my fall.

"Taylor!" Travis's voice is urgent, panicked.

I try to push him away, but my strength is gone. "Don't... touch me," I mumble weakly, my words slurring.

"You're burning up," he says, his tone more concerned than I've ever heard it. "You need help."

"I don't need you," I manage before the darkness closes in.

The last thing I hear is Zoë crying, her tiny voice calling for me. And then, nothing.

—————Author's Note:

Zoë deserves better