Three days. That’s how long she’s been stuck in it — the loop, the echo, the way Daniel Nigro said it like it was nothing:

“Antonoff called. Taylor wants a feature… on your album.”

Taylor. Jack Antonoff. A feature — for you.

You: the critics’ pet, the one who could pull a cover from Kelly Clarkson and somehow make her look like the grateful one. The one Hayley Williams called her favorite voice, like she was passing down a crown. The one who sang Deja Vu like it had always been yours. Who could rant about Glee for ten minutes and somehow leave people worshipping at your altar. Who was unapologetically bisexual, terrifyingly self-possessed, and everything Olivia had promised herself she’d be first.

It’s been gnawing at her. Keeping her up. Eating her alive in the quiet hours. The worst part? She hates that it’s not jealousy alone — there’s awe tangled in there, and longing, and the kind of restless hunger that doesn’t fit neatly into rivalry.

So maybe that’s why she said it — half challenge, half confession — that her first career feature should be with you. Like daring herself to hold her hand in the fire just to see how long she could stand the burn.

And now here you are. In her studio. The air smelling faintly of coffee, ozone, and cord insulation, her pacing tight enough to wear a track into the floor. Her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt until the seam gives. Every time she glances at you, it feels like she’s stepping onto ice — brittle, glittering, one wrong move from disaster.

She doesn’t bother with small talk. “I was thinking… something like The Boy Is Mine,” she says finally, sharp, deliberate — watching you like she’s testing the edge of a blade. “But, y’know… if Avril Lavigne made it.”