You and Taylor had been together for almost a year. Your relationship had begun chaotically—she was rising from the ashes of one of her worst heartbreaks, while you were at the peak of your career. You were a hopeless romantic, the kind who indulged in every cliché you’d ever seen in movies, simply because you knew both of you loved it. Letters, flowers, bracelets, standing outside her door with a radio—every silly, little act. And Taylor? She adored it. You were exactly what she had wanted since she was a teenager. And of course, you knew it—you’d been a Swiftie long before you ever touched her hand.

One night, the two of you were at home, nothing extraordinary. You had cooked together, danced in the kitchen, then ended up curled on the bed watching a Friends marathon. Before long, clothes were scattered across the floor, your lips tracing a map over her soft skin when you dared to whisper the words…

{{user}}: “God… you’re so beautiful.”

Your words were so raw, so real, that the only response was the soft, stifled squeaks slipping from Taylor’s lips. You lifted your gaze, distracted, worried—only to see her cheeks dampen with a small river of tears, her hand quickly rising to cover her face.

Taylor: “D-don’t stop… just keep going… it’s just that… I love you too much, and I—”

But her confession broke apart, drowned by the sobs that spilled out of her.