You'll Be Alright - Taylor Swift

Part 21

Taylor's POV

Jogging from behind the stage, I waved at the fans as I made my way backstage, more than ready for a cold shower and cuddles with Ryan. The heat tonight was unbearable, a relentless reminder of the scorching memories of Brazil that lingered in the recesses of my mind. 

Still, I pressed on, driven by the anticipation of the comfort that awaited me – the sweet indulgence of ice cream, the promise of a restful sleep and most importantly, all the cuddles I wanted with Ry.

Ry is not dealing well with the heat today. She has been warm and clammy all day. Not to mention more irritable than usual when it comes to her sling and brace. I have been trying my best to keep her hydrated and cool, but she hasn't been all that willing. I'm hoping that hanging out with the girls helped take her mind off the heat and her sling so that we can have a nice, calm evening.

But as soon as I stepped into my dressing room, a bone-chilling current seized my heart.

Mom was there, pacing anxiously, but Ryan was nowhere in sight. Her absence created an unnerving void, a stark departure from the usual image of her waiting on the sofa for my return. 

Since the first show, Mom had made it a ritual to arrive earlier, ensuring she was back here before me since the first show, where they got here after me, and I had a mini freak out while waiting for them. Now they leave while I'm still on stage to make sure they're back first.

Panic set in as I frantically scanned the room for any sign of my precious daughter.

"Where's Ryan?" I blurted out as the door closed behind me, causing Mom to freeze mid-pace. Her back turned to me as she drew a shaky breath. "Taylor," she began, turning to face me, her eyes reflecting the same terror that gripped my soul. It was a haunting déjà vu, reminiscent of that dreadful day seven years ago when I awoke to the nightmare of my baby being stolen.

The hospital room was bathed in sterile white, the antiseptic smell lingering in the air. I had been exhausted and drained from the birthing process; thirteen hours of labour would do that to a person when my mom gently woke me from a nap. She's the one who suggested I should take one while they ran tests on the baby. Her face was pale, eyes wide with shock and disbelief, a look of pure fear on her face that I had never seen before.

"Taylor," she whispered urgently, "Taylor, you need to wake up; she's gone," she mumbled, still shaking me.

I shot up, heart pounding as if it would burst from my chest. The room felt surreal, a distorted nightmare I couldn't wake up from. My precious baby, who had been safe and sound not even an hour ago, was gone.

Panic clamped down on my chest, and I stumbled out of bed against Mom's protests, desperately searching every corner of the room blindingly, knowing she wouldn't be there but hoping I would find her. People were everywhere, all trying to talk to me, but I couldn't hear anything over the ringing in my ears as I searched for my baby.

In those agonising moments, time seemed to warp, and fear seized me in its merciless grip. I couldn't comprehend how someone could steal my newborn daughter. The world shattered into fragments, and I was suspended in a nightmare that eclipsed the joy of welcoming a new life.

I don't even know what happened next. One minute, I was standing in the middle of the room looking, and the next, I was in the corner screaming for my baby through my sobs until the world went black.

A part of me thought when I'd wake up, it all really would have been a nightmare. But the next time I woke up, I was back in the hospital bed, with Mom holding my hand desperately. Apparently, I had been sedated in my panic. I was awake again, and my baby was still gone.