WHY SHE DISAPPEARED - Taylor Swift x Reader

count to ten, take it in

The first thing that cuts through the drowsy haze of unconsciousness in the morning is the fairly objective fact that you feel like fucking hell. That very telltale migraine seems to have overtaken and claimed ownership of every small corner of your skull. You feel nauseous and can't decide whether you need to get up and rush to the bathroom, or if that would be too much movement and only make it worse. Your mouth tastes terrible, your eyes are bleary, you can't think straight.

It's been a real long time since you had that much of a hangover, which is saying something. As someone who spent most of her adulthood outdrinking veterans and war correspondents (and generally people who had little to lose and absolutely no fear of the bite of a glass of liquor), being hungover at all is in itself somewhat a surprise.

But surprise or even the irritating way of your body letting you know that "hey pal, you fucked up this time!" are much more brittle and much less painful than the crushing weight of memory.

You lie there for a moment, eyes squeezed shut against the morning light filtering through your bedroom curtains, hoping that maybe, just maybe, last night was some kind of elaborate alcohol-induced nightmare. That you didn't actually spend a long while flirting with your mysterious neighbour. That you didn't make out with said neighbour against her car like some kind of horny teenager. That your mysterious neighbour isn't actually Taylor fucking Swift.

But no. The universe isn't that kind.

Your phone buzzes on the night stand, and you crack one eye open to see a text from Joanna: How did it go with the blonde? You disappeared without saying goodbye, you terrible friend. Hope you got some.

You stare at the message for a long moment, then type back: It's complicated.

Good complicated or bad complicated?

You don't even know how to begin answering that question, so you don't. Instead, you drag yourself out of bed, moving like you're ninety years old with not a singular functional joint in your body.

The routine of making coffee is usually meditative for you - the grinding of beans you grew yourself, the careful measurement of water temperature, the slow pour that creates the perfect bloom. Today, it feels like hell. Just like everything else. Your hands shake as you measure the coffee, and you nearly drop the ceramic dripper twice.

But you need this. You need the ritual, the familiarity, the connection to something that makes sense. Because everything else in your life has apparently been flipped upside down and shaken like a fucking snow globe.

The beans are from your latest harvest, a small batch of geisha variety that you've been particularly proud of. Bright, floral notes with a clean finish that usually makes you feel like maybe you haven't completely fucked up your life with your personal choices. Today, even your own excellent coffee tastes bitter.

You take your mug out to the small porch that faces west, toward the property line you share with your neighbour. With Taylor Swift. With the woman who's been the subject of your most creative cursing for three months, who you kissed and dry-humped in public last night like your life depended on it.

The view is exactly the same as it's been every morning for the past year - rolling hills covered in plantations, the occasional glimpse of her property through the trees, the mountains rising in the distance. But knowing who lives behind that screen of vegetation changes everything, doesn't it? It's like finding out the annoying dog next door is actually a wolf.

Your phone buzzes again. This time it's a reminder about your 10 AM appointment with Robert, the lawyer you hired to deal with the water rights situation. You stare at the notification, thumb hovering over the screen.