a/n happy swiftmas. this is my present to you
Taylor's POV
The music studio welcomed me like an old friend, a haven where melodies and emotions intertwined. Jack, one of my trusted producers, trailed behind me, his presence offering a sense of camaraderie in the silent sanctuary of sound.
With measured steps, I crossed the room, my heart heavy with the weight of unspoken worries. The air in the studio felt charged with emotions, a symphony of concerns and hopes blending into an intangible melody.
"These hold fragments of everything," I murmured, my fingers tracing the aged edges of the notebooks. Memories flickered within the pages, a mosaic of lyrics, musings, and unfinished melodies—a testament to the myriad of emotions woven into the fabric of my life.
The leather-bound journals had been my confidants, each page a canvas where my thoughts had found solace, where emotions had poured out in ink and melody. They had witnessed moments of triumph and despair, echoes of laughter and tears—testimonies to the complexity of the human experience.
With a reverent touch, I flipped through the pages, memories dancing across my mind's eye. Scribbled lyrics, fragmented thoughts, and half-formed melodies greeted me—a reflection of my soul laid bare.
"I found theses a while ago and wanted to go through some of my old stuff and try and make new music out of my old writing," I confessed softly, my voice carrying the weight of emotions that words couldn't fully convey.
"Okay then, lets see what we can do with these," He said flicking through the pages of one of them.
I picked up a guitar as Jack sat at the Piano,
My fingers moved effortlessly across the fretboard, plucking the strings to create a soft, soothing melody—a gentle embrace of sound that sought to comfort, to convey the reassurance she needed. The music served as a conduit, weaving threads of understanding and empathy into every note.
Beside me, Jack's fingers danced skillfully over the keys of the keyboard, each keystroke complementing the melody, weaving a tapestry of harmonies that resonated with the emotions we wished to convey. The room came alive with the blending of sounds—the guitar's comforting strums intertwining with the keyboard's serene chords.
As we played, lyrics began to form—a lyrical narrative that painted the canvas of emotions, capturing the essence of a longing for connection and the promise of solace. Each word carried the weight of our empathy, the lyrics forming a poignant narrative that sought to bridge the unspoken gap between us and Alexia.
The music became our voice, articulating the emotions we struggled to express in words. It served as a silent plea, a heartfelt invitation to Alexia to let the melodies embrace her, to find comfort in the unspoken verses and choruses.
The serenity of the moment was disrupted by the sharp ringing of my phone, breaking the cocoon of musical creation. My fingers stilled on the guitar strings as I glanced at the screen, recognizing the few contacts I kept unmuted during recording sessions—my parents, Travis, my childhood best friend Abigail, and, of course, Alexia's school.
"Can you pass it?" I requested, handing the guitar back to its stand, urgency thrumming beneath the surface.
"Hi, is this Miss Swift?" a voice inquired on the other end as I lifted the phone.
"This is her," I replied, settling back into the couch, a sense of anticipation tingling in the air.
"We are aware you are not Alexia's primary contact, but your husband was unable to pick up the phone," the voice explained. The mix-up with Travis being referred to as my husband brought a soft smile to my lips—it was a common occurrence.
"That's fine, what can I do for you?" I asked, a hint of concern seeping into my voice, knowing they had tried to reach Travis before trying to call me, signifying the seriousness of the call.
"During lunch, there was an altercation between your daughter and another student. We are asking that at least one of her guardians comes into school to discuss this with the other parents," the voice continued, delivering a blow of unexpected news. My mind raced with questions—was Alexia being bullied? Was she the instigator? Was she hurt?
"Your daughter will also be sent home and will be suspended for the next three days," the voice concluded, dropping a weight of worry and urgency upon me.
My fingers fumbled, hastily ending the call. Panic surged within me, a tumult of thoughts and fears swirling. I turned to Jack, hurriedly gathering my notes and unfinished work.
"I have to go," I announced, a sense of urgency coloring my words as I scrambled to leave.
"Don't worry, I'll take care of things here. Go!" Jack reassured me, a firm grip on my arm trying to provide a semblance of calm amidst the chaos.
"I'll text you later," I rushed, darting out of the room and into my waiting car. My fingers flew over the phone screen, dialing Travis repeatedly, each attempt met with silence.
As I sped towards the school, my mind raced with possibilities, concern tightening my chest. A text from Travis flashed on my screen as I pulled into the school lot.
"Was out with my brother. Everything okay?" his text read, oblivious to the unfolding situation.
"Get to the school ASAP," I hastily replied before exiting the car, striding urgently into the school's reception area, my heart racing with worry for Alexia.
"So you're sending her home because another student is bullying her?" Travis's voice cut through the air, the tautness in his tone a reflection of his growing concern and anger.
"No, sir. She retaliated; that's why we're sending her home," the principal retorted, her voice tinged with frustration, the weight of her responsibilities evident in her demeanor.
"You didn't bother to tell us this has been going on for the past two weeks," Travis pointed out, his gaze shifting between the principal and the small figure seated between us, his protective instincts rising to the surface.
"That is not our job, sir," the principal replied tersely, her tone indicating the bureaucratic limitations she faced.
The tension in the room was palpable, a brewing storm of parental concern, administrative protocol, and the distressing reality of a child caught in the midst of it all. I could sense the anger simmering beneath Travis's controlled exterior, his protective instincts pulsating for Alexia, seeking answers, and demanding accountability.
The little girl between us remained quiet, her eyes downcast, a mixture of fear and unease etched on her face. She was the nucleus of this storm, a young soul caught in the tangled web of school dynamics, her innocence overshadowed by the complexity of the situation.
"It is your job, though. You're meant to tell us if she is being bullied," I interjected before Travis could voice his frustration.
"I am sorry we didn't. Surely, you would have noticed some change in behavior from her," the principal retorted, her tone reflecting the weariness of the conversation.
"No, because she has been with us for only three weeks," Travis stated firmly, his agitation evident as he rose from his seat and walked out. His swift departure carried a blend of concern and frustration, a protective instinct toward Alexia that couldn't bear the bureaucratic runaround.
As soon as we stepped through the front door, Alexia dashed to her room, her silence hanging heavy in the air, a palpable sign of distress.
"I know we chose a public school to minimize the change for her, but I can't let her go through this," Travis voiced his concern, placing his keys on the counter with a resolute thud.
Feeling overwhelmed, I closed my eyes, seeking solace in Travis's embrace. His arms encircled me, providing a comforting anchor as tears welled up and spilled down my cheeks. The weight of helplessness settled in, the ache of seeing Alexia in such turmoil, and the frustration of not being able to protect her from it all.
YOU ARE READING
22 - a tayvis adaption story
Fanfiction- Discontinued - when Alexia Wilson is selected to receive the 22 hat at the last Taylor swift show of the eras tour, she takes this as the chance to get out of her abusive household. The art for the cover was done by me
