You'll Be Alright - Taylor Swift

Part 13

Taylor's POV

The stage pulses with energy, and I throw myself into the music; the crowd cheers a chaotic symphony. But beneath the adrenaline, a relentless ache gnaws at me. Ryan, my sweet baby, is miles away, and every beat of the song is a heartbeat echoing the separation anxiety I can't escape. Okay, maybe she isn't miles away, but in fact just in the crowd, but still. She is too far away for me to pull her into my arms and shield her if anything goes wrong. So she might as well be miles away.

The spotlight blinds me, but it doesn't illuminate the void left by her absence. I dance, I sing, but my heart is tethered to thoughts of her – the smile, the tiny hands that grasp me whenever she's in my arms. The crowd's enthusiasm fuels my performance, but the weight of missing her crashes down in the quiet between songs. I try to plaster on a smile. Knowing that this is my first show back since abruptly cancelling the Edinburgh show, so everything is going to be under a microscope, but still. I just want Ryan.

Every lyric carries a silent plea, a desperate desire for Ryan to feel the vibrations of the music and know I'm there in spirit. The cheers become a distant echo, drowned by the roar of worry in my mind.

I catch glimpses of the audience, their faces aglow with admiration, and for a moment, I'm lost in their shared energy. But it's a fleeting distraction. The sea of hands reaching for me is a reminder of the connection we share, but it's not the same. I crave the simplicity of holding Ryan close, feeling her heartbeat against mine.

I can only think about Ryan and the fact that she is beyond arm's reach right now. That anything could happen to her, and I'm not close enough to stop it. No matter how hard I try to glance at the tent casually, I can't even see her right now. I am having them move it somewhere closer tomorrow night, for sure.

I know that, logically, she is safe. Mom is with her. Not to mention, a small army is surrounding the tent, with Greg and Axle both standing watch. But that doesn't help my nerves as I sing song after song. I'm lucky that I could do this tour in my sleep at this point because it feels like I am merely going with the motions as my mind spirals over all the things that could happen to Ryan now that she isn't in my arms or in my sight.

It doesn't help that I have no idea what she is thinking right now. Is she scared? She doesn't like people, and this place is packed. I'm worried that this is way too much for her. Of course, this is too much for her. This would be too much for most adults. Let alone a petrified seven-year-old. She is clearly terrified of her own shadow, so of course, she is scared right now. I should be there holding her and reassuring her that it's all okay. Not up here. I should have fought harder to delay or cancel the tour.

It's so loud, and even with her ear defenders, I'm sure the noise is a lot for her, which isn't going to make her any less scared. Plus, I'm worried that it will be too loud and set back all the progress we have made with her health. A few days ago, the ringing in her ears was so bad she couldn't hear. What was I thinking, letting her come to a concert that I knew would be this loud?

"Taylor," someone yells as I try to run backstage during my first quick change. Tree grabs my wrist as I turn to glare at her. This was a bad idea. I should be with Ryan. She needs me.

"She's okay. I promise she's okay. You don't have time to freak out right now. You need to change and get back out there for Fearless. She is with your Mom and Axle. She is safe and having a blast. Look," she shoved a phone in my face as people worked around us, and I was forced into the Fearless outfit.

A wave of relief washed over me, momentarily quelling the panic that had gripped my heart. Glancing at the screen of Tree's phone, I saw a video of Ryan, a little confused and utterly adorable. She was perched on the edge of her wheelchair right by the barrier, her gaze bouncing between the stage and the familiar face of my Mom holding the recording device. Honestly, I doubt she can see the stage over everyone's head. I should have told Mom to give her a chair to sit in. I'm sure she would refuse help to get into one, but I'm also sure she could get into it if she put her mind to it.