You'll Be Alright - Taylor Swift

Part 17

Taylor's POV

"Taylor, we need to leave. We need extra time in case there's traffic. You don't want to be late," Mom's voice calls towards the music room, making Ryan huff in the most adorable way as she slumps back onto my chest. I can see the pout on her lips as I look down at her, making me bite back a laugh. She is just so cute when grumpy.

"Five more minutes?" She asks softly, playing with my fingers as she tips her head back to look at me, making me smile, nodding instantly—screw traffic. Ryan hasn't asked for anything, ever. So if she wants five more minutes, she's going to get it. I would take being late a thousand times if it meant giving Ryan something she wanted, especially when it's proving that she is starting to feel comfortable with me, even with everything going on.

"Five more minutes," I agree, making her smile, although, to my surprise, she doesn't go back to playing. She instead swivels around to cuddle into my chest. "Your turn," she mumbles, digging her face into my neck as her fingers wrap around my top. She hasn't let go of me since her breakdown yesterday. One part of us has been constantly touching since. Not that I blame her.

I have no idea where she got the idea of her leaving, but the fact that she was so distraught over the thought broke my heart, even if a selfish part of me was oddly pleased to know she didn't want to leave.

Mom thinks maybe she should talk to someone. The word therapist was suggested via text, but I'm not putting Ryan through that. She can barely speak to Mom. There is no way she is talking to a stranger.

As much as I love how touchy Ry is being, I'm worried that it's going to make the show even harder than usual. She hates the start of the show when we have to separate at the best of times. So, after yesterday, I'm concerned that it's all going to be too much. I suggested postponing, but Mom and Tree said she'd be fine.

"Will you sing my song, please?" Ry follows up on her request for me to play, making me smile, instantly knowing what song she means. The fact that she called it her song makes me smile even more as I start without hesitating. The opening bars of Safe and Sound echo around the room as I feel her smile against my neck.

I continue to play the piano, my fingers dancing across the keys as the melody of Safe and Sound fills the room, and I start to sing along softly. Ryan's request warms my heart, and I can't help but feel a sense of comfort knowing that she finds solace in this song.

As the music envelops us, I feel Ryan's body relax against mine. Her grip on my shirt remains firm, but it's a comforting touch, a lifeline that keeps her grounded. I let the familiar tune flow, pouring my emotions into each note. The song itself holds a special place in our hearts—I might not have written it for Ryan, but she's right. It is and always will be her song.

I steal a glance at Ryan, her face burred in my neck as her breath tickles against my neck. The room is filled with a soft melody, creating a cocoon of warmth around us. I remember writing this song during a time when everything felt uncertain, and playing it now for Ryan feels like a way to communicate that sense of security I longed for back then.

As the last notes linger in the air, I gently bring the song to a close. Silence settles around us for a moment before Ryan speaks, her voice a soft whisper against my neck. "Again, please," she requests, her fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on my shirt.

"Of course, as many times as you want," I assure her, starting the song once more. It becomes a comforting routine, the piano serving as a vessel for our emotions. Each repetition feels like a reaffirmation of the bond we share, a promise that I'll always be there for her.

The minutes pass, and the world outside our cocoon fades away. It's just us and the music, a shared moment that transcends words. I lose myself in the repetitive yet soothing melody, feeling a deep connection with Ryan. I'm determined to be her anchor, to provide the safety and love she needs.