Les I'm Miserable

Two Day's LaterDecember 16th; 2024Taylor Swift's Point of ViewI'm sitting up in one of Travis's fancy guest beds, the soft sheets under me feeling like an odd luxury when I know I should be somewhere else, anywhere else. When I got here I had energy but I definitely overexerted myself and now I can barely breathe. I'm trying my best to not die so I can leave and just go home. The pain is almost unbearable, my body still too weak from everything that's happened, but I'm here, trapped in this unfamiliar room, stuck in a cycle of exhaustion.

The spirometer sits on the side table, mocking me with its cold, clinical presence. I've been using it for what feels like forever, but it's still kicking my ass every time. The damn thing is an absolute asshole, and I'm still having problems reaching the top. My lungs feel like they're filled with cement, heavy and slow, and every time I try to take a deep breath, the air feels like it's just not coming fast enough. The doctors keep insisting I use it to help my lungs, to strengthen them, but all it does is knock the wind out of me every single time. It's supposed to help, but it feels like it's only making everything worse. That's probably why I need to use it.

I sigh, feeling the weight of the exhaustion press against my chest, and try again. The effort is futile as usual—my breaths still shallow, the device barely budging.

"Just keep practicing...you'll get there," the nurse says, her voice calm and soothing as she picks up the spirometer from the table and sets it back down next to me, her hands steady and efficient.

"Why is it so hard? It's just breathing," I mutter, staring at the small device as if willing it to cooperate.

The nurse doesn't immediately respond, giving me a moment to try again, her hands hovering over the device like she's ready to help if needed. Her calm demeanor is almost too much, like it's a reminder of how fragile I am right now. I hate feeling fragile.

"Because you had pneumonia," she starts, her voice gentle but firm, as if she's explaining something to a child. "And that caused wet lung, which is when fluid builds up in the lungs, depriving the organs of oxygen. It's a serious condition, and it almost killed you." She pauses, letting her words settle in, probably to make sure I understand just how bad it really was.

Wet lung. The phrase hangs in the air like a curse. I've heard the doctors mention it before, but hearing it again, more clearly this time, makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with my breathing. It's hard to digest the fact that my body came so close to shutting down completely.

I force myself to focus on the nurse, trying not to think about how terrifying the reality of all this is. "So, I'm not just being dramatic?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood, but it falls flat even as I say it. There's nothing funny about this.

"No. This is real. But you're recovering. Slowly, but surely." She offers a soft smile, but it's a smile tinged with understanding—she's been through this before with other patients, seen them fight to breathe again, to heal.

I nod slowly, feeling the weight of it all on my shoulders. "Guess that's why the breathing exercises feel like torture," I say with a weak chuckle, but it's more for my own sake than anything else.

"They're not easy, but they're important. Every breath counts," the nurse says as she pats my shoulder lightly before straightening up and stepping back. "Just take your time. It's okay to be frustrated, but you'll get there."

I turn my gaze back to the spirometer, holding it in my hands once more. My body protests, but I push through it, taking another deep breath, determined to make progress, even if it's just a little bit. The device makes a soft click as I try again, my lungs struggling to cooperate. It's hard, but the more I focus on each inhale and exhale, the more I realize—this is what I need to get better. This is how I fight for myself, for Zoë, for the future.

It's slow, agonizing work, but it's the only work I've got right now.

"Well, it's time for me to get going. Mr. Kelce should be home soon." Sheila says, standing up from the chair next to my bed, brushing off the wrinkles in her uniform with a practiced hand.

"Thank you, Sheila," I reply with a small smile, still feeling a little groggy from the medication.

She gives me a knowing look, a little glint in her eye as she gathers her things. "You are so lucky... Travis Kelce. He's every girl's dream."

I shake my head, a small laugh escaping despite my exhaustion. "He's not my boyfriend. Just a guy who owes me endless amounts of favors."

She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but just nods. "Whatever you say, dear. You're still lucky." She heads for the door, giving me one last glance as she exits.

I roll my eyes with a shrug. Even the thought of being his girlfriend makes me want to vomit. I've had enough of all the attention, and the last thing I need right now is to deal with the mess that being around him brings. I throw my legs off the side of the bed, the cold floor making me flinch for a moment, but I ignore it. My focus is on Zoë. She's the only one who matters right now, and I need to get my bearings straight, for her sake.

I stand up, still feeling the lingering ache in my chest from the pneumonia, but I push through it. Zoë's probably somewhere around here, and the thought of seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, even just having her near me, brings me a little peace. It's the only kind of peace that makes sense anymore.

I scan the room, walking slowly and carefully as I make my way to the living room. The large space is quiet, but I can hear the faint sound of her giggling. I round the corner, and there she is, sitting on the floor, playing with one of the stuffed animals Travis had bought for her.

"Zo Zo," I call softly, smiling at her. She looks up at me, her eyes lighting up instantly.

"Mama!" she squeals, her tiny hands reaching up for me, and I can't help but smile more.

I walk over to her, scooping her up and holding her close. "You're my favorite little person," I whisper into her hair, taking in the calm, steady feeling of her in my arms.

"Hello, Ms. Swift. I was just making dinner for tonight," the chef says as I walk into the kitchen, his voice warm yet professional.

"Please, just call me Taylor," I reply, giving him a polite smile.

"Okay, Taylor." The chef nods, turning his attention back to the stove.

I walk over to the counter, my curiosity piqued. "What's for dinner?" I ask, hoping for something comforting after the long morning.

"Well," the chef begins, "Mr. Kelce requested something that would help with your recovery. He said you have no allergies, so you'll have to eat whatever I make you because it's for your health."

I raise an eyebrow, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused. "If it's something fancy, I doubt my daughter will eat it."

The chef chuckles softly. "I'm making her mac and cheese. You, however, are getting an Asian barbecue-glazed salmon with broccoli, lemongrass-scented rice, shiitake mushrooms, carrots, and spinach."

I blink, half-surprised by the complexity of the dish. "Fun..." I mutter, the idea of the intricate flavors almost overwhelming. A quick glance at Zoë, who's pulling at my hair lightly. "She'll probably turn her nose up at that mac and cheese, though."

The chef looks at me, a little sheepish. "I made sure to add extra cheese."

"That's what I like to hear." I laugh, despite the exhaustion weighing on me. It's nice to know someone's thinking about taking care of me—even if it's just a little too gourmet for my usual tastes. I can already imagine Zoë covered in cheese and noodles by the end of the night.

As the chef works, I lean against the counter, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and frustration. The situation with Travis is still so complicated, but moments like these—quiet, simple—make me wonder if maybe I could get used to this kind of care. Still, I'm not ready to admit it. Not yet.

"Honey, you should rest." The nanny walks up and gently takes Zoë from my arms, cradling her with ease. Zoë lets out a small protest but soon settles down against her chest.

"I can still function as a human. Jeez. You guys are acting like I'm made of glass," I grumble, watching as the nanny starts to move toward the living room.

The nanny chuckles softly, clearly used to my complaints. "We believe you could do it... we're just getting paid a lot by Mr. Kelce to treat you like you could die any second." She grins, glancing back at me over her shoulder. "I'm not saying you're fragile, but the doctor wasn't exactly optimistic about your recovery."

I roll my eyes, pushing myself further up in the bed as I cross my arms. "I'm fine. I just need a little time to get back to normal."

She pauses for a second, setting Zoë down on the couch with a few toys to keep her distracted. "Sure, but after everything you've been through? You might be able to tough it out, but you don't have to. Let us help."

I sigh, biting back the urge to argue. Part of me resents the over-protection, but I know they're just doing their job, and if I'm being honest, it's probably for the best. Still, the idea of being pampered while I'm still grappling with everything makes me feel uncomfortable.

"Fine, but no more 'treating me like glass,' okay?" I raise an eyebrow at her, trying to sound stern, though I can't help but smile slightly.

She laughs and nods, "Deal. Just don't go overdoing it, alright?"

I slump back against the pillows on the couch with a sigh. "I guess I'll try."

The door swings open, and a familiar, booming voice fills the house. "Honey, I'm home!"

I roll my eyes so hard I half-expect them to get stuck. "Please, save the act for the cameras."

"And there's my lovely wife. Always so happy to see me!" Travis saunters into the room, a smirk plastered on his face, drink in hand.

I squint at the glass. "Is that scotch?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Yep, and not just any scotch. Fancy scotch you can't afford," he says, leaning forward to poke my forehead with his finger like he's knocking on a door.

I swat his hand away. "You're drunk."

"And you're a desperate bitch who can't lay off a guy when he tries to help," he snaps, his tone laced with condescension.

I sit up straighter, narrowing my eyes at him. "So, you're the kind of guy who plays the hero for the world but comes home to drink and act like an ass?"

He takes a slow sip, his smirk deepening. "You need to get laid. You used to be way cooler."

I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. "You really are the worst. You think everything's a joke, don't you? You're living in this bubble where you're untouchable, and everyone else is just an accessory to your life."

His expression hardens for a moment, but he quickly shrugs it off. "Yeah, well, I don't see you doing much better, sweetheart."

I press my lips together, refusing to let him see just how much he's gotten under my skin. "You know what? Enjoy your scotch. I'll focus on what actually matters—Zoë."

As I turn away, I hear him mutter under his breath, but I don't bother asking what he said. Whatever it was, it doesn't deserve my energy.

"Does he do this a lot?" I ask the chef, crossing my arms as I glance toward the door Travis just stumbled through.

"Come home wasted?" the chef replies, carefully plating a dish with steady hands as if this is all just another Tuesday for him.

"Yeah," I say, my voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

The chef pauses for a moment, giving me a sidelong look. "Only when he's pissed off about something."

I raise an eyebrow. "And what's he pissed off about now?"

The chef shrugs, returning to his work with a practiced indifference. "That's above my pay grade, ma'am. I just make the food."

"Right," I mutter, my gaze drifting back toward the doorway where I can still hear Travis grumbling to himself. The tension in my chest tightens, but I force myself to let out a slow breath.

The chef looks at me again, this time with a hint of sympathy. "You'll get used to it. Or not."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I say dryly, shaking my head as I sink into one of the kitchen chairs, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

The chef places a plate of food in front of me, and I stare at it like it belongs in a museum. Perfectly glazed salmon rests atop a bed of broccoli and lemongrass-scented rice, with colorful shiitake mushrooms, carrots, and spinach arranged like edible art. It's beautiful—probably too beautiful for someone like me. This looks like food that requires a different fork for each bite, and I'm not even sure I'd know where to start.

"Thanks," I mumble, picking up the fork nearest to me—because who's going to judge? Certainly not Zoë, who's now wriggling in the nanny's arms.

The nanny gently places Zoë into her chair and clips the buckle. "Okay, sweetheart, let's try some mac and cheese," she says, cutting the pasta into smaller bites and guiding Zoë's tiny hand to the spoon.

"Cakes?" Zoë asks, blinking up at the nanny.

"No, not pancakes. Mac and cheese," the nanny says with a chuckle, helping her scoop up a bite. "See? It's yummy."

Zoë hesitates, then takes the bite, her face lighting up like the sun. "Cheese!" she exclaims through a mouthful of noodles.

I can't help but smile as I watch her. At least one of us is having a good time. Meanwhile, I poke at my salmon, feeling like I should be a food critic or royalty to even attempt eating this meal.

"You should eat while it's still warm," the chef says, glancing at me as he tidies up the counter.

"Right," I reply, cutting into the salmon. The first bite practically melts in my mouth, the sweet and smoky glaze hitting all the right notes. Damn. Maybe this isn't so bad.

I glance down and pick up the napkin folded neatly beside my plate. The second I touch it, I freeze, blinking at the luxurious fabric in my hand. "A cloth napkin... woah."

It's not the scratchy kind you get at weddings or fancy diners; no, this thing feels softer than the sheets on my bed back home. I run my fingers over it again just to make sure I'm not imagining it. It's thick, perfectly pressed, and probably worth more than my entire set of towels.

"You okay there?" the nanny asks, smirking as she wipes Zoë's hands with a regular baby wipe.

"Yeah," I mutter, still staring at the napkin like it's a piece of art. "I just... didn't realize napkins could be this fancy."

The chef chuckles from the kitchen. "Welcome to Mr. Kelce's house, where even the napkins are a luxury."

I shake my head and place the napkin in my lap, suddenly feeling a little out of place. The weight of it—yes, the weight—makes me wonder how many of these things Travis has, and who washes them. I bet he has someone whose job is literally just "napkin manager."

Zoë, of course, is blissfully unaware of my napkin-related existential crisis. She's busy scooping up mac and cheese with her tiny hands, giggling as the nanny gently redirects her to use the spoon.

"Cakes!" Zoë announces again, holding up a noodle like it's a prize.

"Close enough," I mutter, tucking the napkin into place and turning back to my salmon.

• •     •

Zoë stirs softly in my arms, her tiny fingers curling around a piece of my sweater as her breathing steadies. The glow from the TV bathes her face in warm light, her eyes fluttering closed as she drifts off. We've been watching SuperKitties, and while Zoë was completely mesmerized, her little body finally gave in to exhaustion after a long day.

Travis strolls into the room, unscrewing the cap of a Powerade bottle with one hand while tossing a couple of pills into his mouth with the other. He plops onto the couch beside me, his movements heavy and unbothered. His feet hit the coffee table with a thud as he leans back, exhaling sharply.

"Really? Disney Junior?" he mutters, side-eyeing the screen like it's personally offended him.

"Zo Zo and I were watching," I say quietly, careful not to wake her. "She just fell asleep."

Without so much as a nod, Travis grabs the remote and flips the channel to some sports recap show, the bright colors and cheerful theme song of SuperKitties replaced by a loud action movie.

I glare at him, biting back the urge to chuck the remote across the room. "You're a real stand-up guy, you know that?"

"I don't need more of your shit, Taylor," he replies, his voice flat and his eyes glued to the TV.

I scoff, shifting Zoë in my arms as irritation bubbles up. "Let me guess," I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Your assistant got your coffee order wrong this morning, and it pissed you off so much you had to drink a scotch about it? Maybe a couple more than needed?"

Travis finally looks at me, his eyes narrowing as he sets the Powerade down on the table. "You piss me off. A lot, if you must know," he says, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

I roll my eyes, turning my attention back to Zoë's peaceful face, feeling the tension in the room rise like a tide. "Well, you're a real charmer, Travis. A damn delight."

"Yeah, well, I didn't invite you here for the sparkling company," he shoots back, leaning further into the couch with a weary sigh.

For a moment, the room is silent except for the muffled voices of the actors on TV and Zoë's soft, rhythmic breathing.

"Can we at least change it to something more PG?" I gesture toward the screen, where an intense, bloody scene is unfolding. "I don't think blood and gore is exactly good for her."

"She's asleep," Travis replies without even glancing in my direction.

"Travis," I say firmly, but he just picks up his Powerade and takes a long sip, ignoring me.

"If you don't like it, you can go somewhere else," he says finally, his tone dripping with indifference. "I got like five other rooms where you can do whatever the hell you want to do."

I shrug, looking down at Zoë in my arms. She's so peaceful, her tiny head resting against my chest. The last thing I want to do is wake her, especially after the long day we've had. "Fine. Whatever," I mutter, leaning back into the couch with a sigh.

Travis smirks, clearly enjoying the small victory. "Been here for less than a week, and you act like you own the place," he says, his voice carrying just enough edge to get under my skin.

I roll my eyes but decide to ignore the jab. Instead, I shift gears, curiosity suddenly getting the better of me. "How are you so rich anyway?" I ask, glancing around the lavish room, from the high-end decor to the state-of-the-art entertainment system. "Your career really took off like, what, two years ago? And now you're living like Scrooge McDuck, swimming in pools of cash."

Travis finally looks at me, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly as if he's about to enjoy explaining this. "Every tenth commercial you see has me in it," he starts, counting on his fingers as he speaks. "I'm the face of three different brands right now. I just launched my own clothing line, which, by the way, keeps selling out. I've done a few modeling gigs. And Jesus Christ, the endorsements," he says, shaking his head like he still can't believe how much people will pay for his face. "Fans eat that shit up. Plus, I'm damn good at my job. That helps."

I stare at him, trying to process just how many streams of income he's juggling. "So basically, you're a walking money printer," I say flatly.

"Pretty much," he replies with a grin, leaning back into the couch like he's the king of the world.

I shake my head, more amused than annoyed. "Must be nice."

"Yeah, it is," he says, a little too smug for my liking.

"What's the diner like?" he asks, leaning back and taking another sip of his drink. His tone is casual, but I can tell it's not genuine curiosity. It feels more like a setup for him to flaunt his lavish lifestyle in comparison to mine.

I give him a dry look before responding. "It's the same diner from before, Travis," I say, my voice flat. "Just as miserable, just as crappy."

He raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Still got the leaky ceiling?"

"Of course. And the booth in the corner where the cushion is ripped and spills out foam every time someone sits down? Still there too," I say with a hint of sarcasm. "Nothing changes, Travis. It's not exactly a five-star establishment."

He lets out a low chuckle. "Sounds like a dream."

"Oh, it's a real dream all right," I shoot back, shaking my head. "Greasy food, impatient customers, and tips that barely cover my bus fare home."

For a moment, he doesn't say anything. He just looks at me, his smirk fading into something closer to thoughtfulness. "You ever think about leaving?" he asks, his voice quieter this time.

I shrug, my fingers gently brushing over Zoë's hair. "What's the point? The diner pays the bills... barely. Leaving doesn't exactly come with a golden parachute."

He nods, but I can tell he doesn't really get it. How could he? He's so far removed from this kind of life now, it probably feels like a bad dream he woke up from long ago.

"Well, maybe one day you'll catch a break," he says after a pause, though his tone makes it sound more like a platitude than encouragement.

"Yeah," I say softly, looking down at Zoë's peaceful face. "Maybe."

"Taylor, I'm not doing this for you because I want to," Travis says, leaning back on the couch like he's doing me the biggest favor in the world. His tone drips with condescension, and he doesn't even bother to look at me.

"I think you've made that clear," I snap back, shifting Zoë in my arms as she stirs slightly but stays asleep. My voice is low, but the sharpness is unmistakable.

"You can bitch and moan all you want, but at least you have a roof over your head," he adds, taking a long sip from his Powerade bottle. His words hang in the air like an unwelcome guest, daring me to respond.

I feel my face heat up, my grip tightening on Zoë without even realizing it. "Oh, I should be grateful, right?" I shoot back, my voice now edged with bitterness. "Because your mansion with the cloth napkins and six TVs is my golden parachute?"

"You said it, not me," he mutters, glancing at the TV like this conversation is beneath him.

I take a deep breath, biting back every insult I want to hurl at him. "You don't get to play savior while acting like a complete ass. I'm here for her, not for your charity." I glance down at Zoë, her small face so peaceful despite the tension in the room. "And I'd gladly trade your roof for a little respect."

"You can leave at any time. I'm not holding you hostage," Travis says, his tone calm and dismissive, as if that's the end of the conversation.

I narrow my eyes at him, my jaw clenching. "You infuriate me," I say through gritted teeth.

Travis finally glances at me, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "I'll get over it," he replies, casually reaching for the remote.

"You're unbelievable," I mutter, shaking my head. I adjust Zoë in my arms, careful not to wake her, but my hands are trembling with frustration. I hate how easily he brushes me off, like my anger is just a passing inconvenience.

"And yet, you're still here," he says without missing a beat, his eyes back on the screen. It's infuriating how composed he is, like none of this affects him at all.

I grit my teeth and swallow my retort. Fighting with him feels like yelling at a brick wall—pointless and exhausting. But God, does he make me want to scream.

—————Author's Note:

Travis: if you're homeless just buy a house

Double update for Taylor's birthday!