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It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It wasn’t supposed to be you and Shane on the floor in your apartment at 2am, because you couldn’t get this song idea out of your head.

You never planned to have him tapping a rhythm on your leg, your feet in his lap. He was in sweatpants and a tshirt with your face on it. He had gotten it as soon as the two of you agreed to collaborate on a song. He thought it was hilarious to wear it out and watch people speculate.

But he found it even more amusing to wear it when the two of you hung out alone like this. You’d roll your eyes every time, and he’d give you this ridiculous grin that made you want to punch his lights out and laugh at the same time.

“What can I say? I’m your biggest fan.”

You had met a few people in your life whose love language was rage baiting, and unfortunately, Shane was one of them. l

“You’re a fucking weirdo, that’s what you are.”

He’d always act so offended.

“Why do you hate me?”

Now, though, the shirt looked different. It looked casual. Especially with the way it lifted when he yawned and stretched.

What a manwhore…

He leaned closer, pretending to be looking anywhere else as he not-so-subtly peaked at the notebook in my lap.

“Bro, what are you doing?”

He sat back up quickly, trying to look innocent.

“Nothing…” he practically sang, eyes darting playfully around the room.

“I’m just writing down lyrics. Mind your fucking business.”

His smile widened and his voice suddenly gained a teasing lilt.

“Oooo, who are you writing about?”

You give him a blank stare. He says it like you haven’t spent the last two hours talking about relationships, and emotions, and nostalgia and human nature.

Like you hadn’t been sitting with your cold coffee in your hands, that you should have given up on ages ago, but just couldn’t bring yourselves to.

Like he hadn’t said something stupid to make you laugh, just so he could compliment your smile, and then go “chat, is this rizz???”

What a fucking loser…

You glance down at the paper in your lap, your fingers fidgeting with the pen.

“I don’t know…”

He sighs dramatically.

“That’s what you always say,” he grumbles, “I want the tea.”

“There is no tea,” you laugh softly, your hand subconsciously covering the words.

“Bruh, yes there issss…”

You chuckle, mimicking the way he leaned over, looking at the phone in his hand. He tilts is away quickly, a playful glimmer in his eyes.

“Oh yeah? What are you writing about, mister?”

He leans towards you, getting between you and his phone. His eyes flickering down to your lips for a moment before meeting yours again, a smirk tugging on the corner of his mouth.

“You.”

You can feel your face heating up, and you quickly pull back. He laughs, and so do you. He doesn’t say he’s kidding. He never does.

If there was anyone who knew what it was like, it was Taylor.

It still didn’t feel real most of the time.

The Queen of Pop. The Music Industry, herself. Taylor Alison Swift was had taken you under her wing. She was your inspiration for so many years and now she was your mentor, too.

She was everything you aspired to be, and yet treated you like you were the best thing since sourdough bread. Genuinely, she was always so kind and encouraging, and you lowkey felt like you could talk to her about anything. You’d write songs with her. She’d sit there in the studio while you poured your heart out, and a few hours later you’d have a fully produced song.

She adored you, and she adored Shane, too.

She had said multiple times how she felt like a proud mother, seeing him write such emotionally honest and heartfelt songs. She also loved that he wrote and produced all his own stuff.

Deep down, you sometimes wondered if there was something else about him that made her like his work so much. Obviously, there were always theories online, and as much as you tried to stay away from them, you did see them.

You had heard the parts of Shane’s songs that sounded a little too similar to parts of sings by the 1975. You couldn’t deny that the “pale, skinny white boy with messy black hair who’s scrutinized by the public” vibe was there. They certainly wrote about similar things, but it wasn’t like relationships were an uncommon thing to write songs about, by any standard. They both cared the “sad indie boy who wishes he were a rock star” energy, too.

Taylor was always a very caring woman. She felt things deeply, much like you did, and she was all about lifting others up.

Taylor has spent over a decade being friends with Matty Healey, caring about him while he was going through hell with his addiction, his eating problems, etc. And when things ended with Joe Alwyn? She was more than happy to give their relationship a second chance, because she hoped for the best and loved him deeply.

No one understood her the way he did. No one engaged with her mind like he did. No one made her feel esoteric and wicked and impish like him.

Of course, that was, until he didn’t. Until he… well, you know. She was with Travis now, and truly she has never been happier.

Nevertheless, when you confided in Taylor about the feelings stirring within you for one of your best friends, she understood perfectly. She understood when you told her how he kept encoding messages to you in the lyrics he wrote. She was the person you texted when he performed one of those same songs live, and mumbled the words into the microphone that made your blood run cold and your heart melt all at once.

“Yes, this song’s about you… they all are.”

You could have killed him.

Oh haha nothing just Grace walking as reader is staring down at their arms/legs, trying to remember how they got these scars.

Grace know. Of course he knows. He was a middle school teacher, and a good one at that. He cared about his students enough to notice when things were wrong.

Tears slip down reader’s cheeks. Not a loud sob, just a quiet, gently stream of tears, their lip quivering. Deep down, reader knows, too. They don’t have the memories, exactly, but they know what they’re looking at.

Grace’s heart absolutely shatters, and he’s at their side in an instant to comfort them.

“Hey, you’re okay…” his voice trails off as reader lifts, a small, soft smile on their mouth.

“They’re faded.”

Grace took another look. They were right. The scars were light, barely visible if he hadn’t been staring directly at them.

“I… stopped,” reader said, their voice slightly broken. “I stopped a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, gently bringing his hand up to brush over the thin lines. “You did, huh?”

Reader’s eyes followed where his thumb trailed, before slowly flickering back up to his.

“Ryland…”

“Hm?”

“I wanted to live.”

He swallows hard, opening his mouth, but no words come out.

“Sweetheart, I—”

They don’t let him finish his futile attempt at a response, leaning in and pressing their lips against his.

His hands tremble slightly, a tear slipping down his cheeks as he closes his eyes.

Just as he leans into the kiss, reader’s hand comes up to cup his jaw, and they pull away just enough to whisper against his lips.

“I might have never met you.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Grace’s crying is louder than reader’s had been, and he sniffles as he buries his wet face in the crook of their neck. His arms wrapping tightly around their waist.

“You might’ve been all alone out here.”

“Shh… don’t worry about that,” Ryland coos, “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

“I know, I just—”

“I love you so much.”

The sound of a 300lbs hamster ball comes tumbling down the hall, Rocky’s automated voice echoing slightly.

“ROCKY LOVE TOO, exclaimation.”

The door opens and Rocky bursts in, stomping his limbs enthusiastically.

“Why Grace leak, question?” He turns to reader.

“Second Grace also leak, exclamation!”

They both let out a soft, sad laugh.

“Rocky no understand. What happen, question?”

Rocky shifts between the two of them, examining the way they seem so focused on reader’s limb.

“Second Grace have etchings also, statement. Confuse. Grace say Humans not have markings.”

There’s a pause, and Grace’s eyes find reader’s before he even tries to respond.

“Sometimes,” reader starts gently, “humans are injured and our flesh heals different. They’re scars. Like the mark on Grace from your claw.”

Rocky tapped for a moment as if processing, then let out a melody as he rolled himself closer.

“Bad, bad, bad!” he waved his limbs almost frantically. “Second Grace hurt, question?”

“It was a long time ago, Rock. I’m okay now. I was… in a fight.”

Rocky’s little fingers wiggle, a new calculation running in his mind.

“Second Grace win fight, question?”

Reader’s eyes softened, their smile widening as they let out a small laugh.

“Yeah… I did.”

“Amaze, amaze, amaze! Second Grace strongest human Rocky ever know, statement!”

Grace huffed out a laugh, trying to look offended.

“Hey!”

“Rocky not talking to Grace, statement.” He waved a limb dismissively. “Grace weak.”

Grace carefully slid an arm around readers waist, pulling them closer to mumble into their ear.

“You feeling better?”

Reader blushed slightly. Grace smirked.

“What’s the matter, baby?”

“Grace, I—,” they tried to start.

“Why Second Grace face temperature rising?”

“Rocky!”

“Rocky ask question, statement.”

Grace just chuckled and kissed their cheek before standing, offering reader a hand.

“Come on, sweetheart. Rocky’s been wanting to show us a new model he made.”

“Exclamation!”