I'm Bitter and Won't Stop Whining

Four Days LaterDecember 13th; 2024Taylor Swift's Point of ViewSo, apparently, I caught the flu, and like the world's cruel joke, it turned into pneumonia. The pneumonia didn't just sit there; it went straight for my lungs like a wrecking ball and caused wet lung. I was told my lungs were barely functioning, and if I'd waited any longer, it could've been worse—way worse. They put me on a cocktail of antibiotics and steroids, hoping to fight off the infection and give me a chance to breathe again.

Now, here I am, still in the hospital, but thankfully out of the ICU. It's a weird feeling—relief mixed with exhaustion. The doctors keep saying I'm lucky I made it through, but all I can think about is how I was inches from suffocating and how my body betrayed me so quickly. I still feel weak, like my body's been through a war and lost, but at least I'm not fighting for every breath anymore. Still, the room feels too quiet. The beeping of machines is gone, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm still in the eye of the storm.

And Travis—god, Travis—is just a nightmare. He strolls in here like he's some kind of hero, trying to act like he's a decent person, like he didn't vanish when I told him I was pregnant. Like he didn't beg me to get an abortion and act like Zoë was the world's biggest inconvenience. Now, all of a sudden, that he's famous, it's like it's convenient for him to show up and act like he's part of our lives. It's the kind of shit that makes my blood boil. He didn't want anything to do with us then, but now that he's got the fame and the spotlight, he thinks he can just waltz in and make it all okay.

And to make it even worse, all the damn nurses and doctors here swoon over him like he's the second coming. There's this one gay nurse, and he's trying so hard to keep his shit together while holding a clipboard over his crotch to hide his—well, you can guess. It's pathetic. I can't even be in the same room as him without feeling like I'm going to explode.

"Happy birthday, Ms. Swift," a doctor says as he walks in with a clipboard in hand.

"Oh crap. Already?" I groan, feeling the weight of another year. "I'm not one to celebrate my birthday."

"Really?"

"I haven't the last two years. I have more important things to worry about," I reply, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice but failing.

"Well, how does it feel to be 25?" he asks, clearly amused.

"Uh... like shit?" I shoot back, looking at him like he's lost his mind for even asking. What else should I say? The whole world can keep spinning, but right now, I'm stuck in a hospital bed, fighting for breath and counting the minutes until I can leave this place.

"Well, we have a gift for you... if you don't mind, of course," the doctor says with a small smile, clearly trying to make the moment feel light.

"Oh god. Please don't tell me it's Travis," I groan, already dreading whatever this could be.

"I promise you'll like this one. We had to cut some corners for it, though," he adds, avoiding my eyes like he's trying to hide something.

"Travis had to, you mean?" I raise an eyebrow, already not liking the sound of it.

"You'll like it. Okay?" he insists, clearly hopeful that whatever it is, it'll be a pleasant surprise.

"Yeah, sure," I mutter, bracing myself for whatever comes next. I can't decide if I should be scared or just resigned at this point.

A doctor walks in with Zoë, and I can feel my heart leap in my chest as soon as I see her. She's wearing a small face mask, her wide eyes barely visible behind it, but the moment she spots me, her face lights up.

"Zo Zo!" I call out, my voice cracking with emotion.

"Mama!" she squeals, her little arms reaching toward me as if she can't wait to be in my arms. The doctor gently sits her down on the bed, and I quickly slip a mask on before brushing the stray hairs out of her face, trying to keep myself composed.

"Oh my god. Baby girl, Mommy missed you so much. You look beautiful," I say, my voice thick with the love I've been dying to express.

She giggles, her eyes shining as she points to her shirt. "I—I shirt," she says proudly.

I glance down at the cashmere sweater she's wearing, and my stomach drops. The softness and luxury of it are unmistakable, and my immediate thought is how much that must have cost. Clearly, it's a week of my salary...maybe even two.

"Who got you this?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

She smiles, oblivious to my thoughts. "Mama, shirt pretty," she says, tugging at the sleeve.

"Your shirt is very pretty," I say, nodding with a smile as I hold her close for a minute. Her warmth feels like the only thing that makes sense in this chaos.

I pull back slightly to look at her, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "Are you sure I won't get her sick?" I ask, the concern in my voice evident. The last thing I want is for her to go through what I just went through.

The doctor reassures me with a calm, professional tone. "You've been on antibiotics and isolated here for five days. You're no longer contagious. She's on antibiotics just to be safe and hasn't shown symptoms. Masks are just a precaution."

I let out a relieved breath, but the worry still lingers. Holding her again, I try to push it out of my mind. Just being with her in this moment, holding her close like this, is all that matters right now.

"Mama, look!" Zoë says, her face lighting up with excitement as she points to her shoes. I notice immediately that these aren't just recently purchased, thrift-store shoes. These are new-new—shiny and fresh, the kind of shoes you'd see in a boutique window.

She bangs one of her feet against the side of the bed, and the shoe starts lighting up in bright, colorful bursts.

"Lights!" she shouts, giggling as the little LED lights flash in rhythm with her movements. Her eyes sparkle with pure joy, and for a moment, the world outside of this sterile room fades away. It's just her, her new shoes, and the wonder of her excitement.

I can't help but laugh, the sound of it feeling foreign but comforting all the same. "Those are amazing, baby," I tell her, brushing another strand of hair from her face. "Where'd you get those?"

"Shoes!" Zoë exclaims, pointing to the bright, flashing sneakers as she bangs them together with excitement. Her little fingers are too small to get a proper grip, but she's determined. I smile despite myself, watching her joyfully distracted by the colorful lights on the shoes with every little tap of her feet.

I let out a soft sigh, thinking I might get a real answer, but she's too focused on her shoes to notice anything else. "Yes, they're very colorful shoes," I say, nodding as I gently tug her closer. "Did Travis get them for you?"

She doesn't answer, but instead giggles, the sound light and carefree, as she kicks her heels together again, making the lights blink more fervently. "Shoes," she repeats, her voice full of delight, as if she's just discovered the most magical thing in the world.

I can't help but smile at her innocence, feeling a pang of tenderness mixed with frustration—this sweet, simple child, caught in a moment of pure happiness, with no regard for the chaos her father has caused in our lives.

"Can I come in, or are you going to try and kill me again?" I hear Travis's voice from the other side of the door, his tone equal parts teasing and wary. I roll my eyes, catching Zoë's gaze. Fine. For her sake.

"Fine. Whatever," I mutter, slumping back into my hospital bed.

The door creaks open, and Travis cautiously steps inside, hands slightly raised, as if signaling that he's harmless. He glances at me before turning his attention to Zoë, who's still distracted by her glowing shoes.

"I didn't realize shoes could entertain a toddler so easily," he comments, a dry laugh escaping his lips.

"Travis, her favorite toy at home is a plastic bowl," I say, my voice thick with both exhaustion and a hint of amusement. "This is like the best thing since sliced bread for her."

Zoë bangs the shoes together again, eyes lighting up as the colors flash. Travis stands there for a moment, watching her, clearly trying to figure out whether to be amused or concerned.

I sigh, watching him, knowing his attempts to play nice don't always match his intentions. But for now, I'll tolerate it. For Zoë.

"I'm taking you to my place tomorrow. You and Zoë," Travis says, his tone firm, almost like he's made up his mind for me.

I blink, trying to process what he just said. "What?!" I spit out, feeling the confusion and frustration bubble up inside me. The last thing I want is to be under his roof.

I glance toward the nurses who are slowly starting to pull out the restraints. I know they're just being cautious, but I give them a sharp, warning glare, and they freeze, unsure whether to back off or step closer. I don't care. I'm not here to be treated like a criminal.

Travis doesn't seem to notice the tension in the air as he folds his arms and shifts his weight, his eyes steady. "Look, you're racking up medical bills staying here, and you've got no one else to take care of you. So, you can either stay here, and watch your debt pile up while you're away from Zoë—or you can come with me bitching and whining. But at least no more hospital bills, you get your daughter, and maybe, just maybe, you won't end up in worse shape than you already are."

I want to scream at him, tell him he doesn't get to come in here and act like he's fixing everything just because he showed up, but the exhaustion weighs heavy in my chest.

I look over at Zoë, sitting so innocently on the edge of the bed, her little face lit up with the excitement of her new shoes. What if being with him really is the best option right now?

"Just so you know, I'm only doing this for Zoë, and I'm leaving as soon as possible," I say, my voice firm, making it clear there's no emotional attachment to this arrangement.

Travis shrugs, unbothered. "Fine by me. I just... I still care, believe it or not."

"Really?" I ask, my tone dripping with sarcasm. I can't believe he's even saying this after everything that's happened.

He sighs, clearly frustrated. "Okay, I care. It might not be a significant amount, but enough to know that, hey, maybe I shouldn't let my daughter grow up without her mother!"

I grit my teeth, my anger rising. "Not your daughter."

His eyes narrow at me, the tension thickening in the room. "God, you're stubborn."

"And you're an ass," I snap back, not willing to let him get under my skin, even though every word he says pisses me off more.

He throws his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine. Be pissed. Just... I'm still here, aren't I?"

I give him a sharp look. "For now."

"Yeah, for now. You're welcome," he mutters, clearly done with the conversation but not with trying to force his way into my life.

"Do you remember what we were doing this time three years ago?" Travis asks, leaning casually against the wall, his tone almost too casual, like he's trying to lure me into some stroll down memory lane.

"Uh, you were knocking me up to abandon me," I snap, not missing a beat.

He smirks, though there's a flicker of something else in his eyes—guilt maybe. "Uh, I was going to say laser tag. We didn't fuck until later that night...excuse me."

My jaw drops. "Are you serious right now?"

"What? I'm just stating facts," he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, though the smirk still lingers.

"Jesus Christ, Travis. Do you even hear yourself?"

"I do, actually. Great voice, solid delivery," he says, clearly trying to deflect with humor.

I shake my head, biting back the urge to launch into another tirade. "Unbelievable."

"How do you think I got famous? By saying stuff badly? No. I'm an actor," Travis says, puffing his chest out like that declaration deserves applause.

"Oh, please. You got famous because you're a pretty face who accidentally tripped into a good role," I retort, rolling my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't get stuck.

"Accidentally?!" He looks genuinely offended, clutching his chest like I just insulted his entire existence. "You think I accidentally landed Redline Operations? That's years of hard work, thank you very much."

"Years of hard work my ass," I mutter. "You wouldn't even be standing here if your agent wasn't a miracle worker."

He pauses, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Well, yeah, my agent's great. But so am I. People don't hire me because of my sparkling personality alone."

"No, they hire you because you look good running away from explosions."

"And saying my lines perfectly while doing it," he shoots back, grinning now. "That's called talent, Taylor."

"Well, it takes more talent to step up when things get hard and give things up for people you love. Unless, of course, you don't love them," I say, crossing my arms and glaring at him.

Travis sighs, running a hand through his hair. "So... are you ever going to let that go?"

"I'll let it go when Donald Trump goes a day without saying something stupid," I snap, refusing to back down.

"Great. So, never," he mutters under his breath, rubbing his temples. "Guess I better prepare for this grudge to last until the end of time."

"You deserve it," I say coldly, refusing to feel even an ounce of sympathy for him.

"Okay, what about when he dies? Then does the grudge end?" Travis asks, tilting his head with mock sincerity.

I narrow my eyes at him. "No. It carries on into the afterlife. Then I'll haunt you just to remind you how much you screwed up."

He snorts. "I'd expect nothing less. At least I'll know you'll be thinking about me."

"Oh, don't flatter yourself. I'll be thinking about Zoë and how to keep her as far away from your bad decisions as possible."

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters, throwing his hands up. "I'm the villain in this story. Got it. But you're still coming with me tomorrow."

"We'll see," I say sharply, turning my attention back to Zoë, who's happily stomping her light-up shoes against the floor. "At least she has one parent who's not a complete disaster."

"Mama! Shoes!" Zoë squeals, her little voice full of excitement.

"Come here. Let me see your shoes." I reach out and scoop her up, settling her on the bed beside me.

She sticks her feet out proudly, showing off the rainbow glittery sneakers with a kitten on the side—of course, it's a kitten with a unicorn horn. "Kitty," she says, pointing at the design with her tiny finger.

I press on the side of her shoe, slapping it lightly to make the lights flash. Her eyes widen, and then she erupts into uncontrollable giggles, throwing her head back.

"You like that, huh?" I grin, doing it again, the lights flickering with every tap. Zoë wriggles in delight, her laughter ringing through the room like the sweetest music I've heard all week.

Travis leans against the doorframe, watching us. "See? Those shoes are already paying for themselves," he says with a smirk.

I glance at him but focus back on Zoë, running my fingers through her soft hair. "Well, at least someone knows how to pick out something she loves," I mutter, ignoring him as I nuzzle her cheek.

"Shoes, Mama!" Zoë insists, as if I might forget how magical they are.

"I see them, baby girl," I say softly. "They're perfect—just like you."

—————Author's Note:

I would die for Zoë