You’ve known Taylor since before the fame, before the Grammys, before the world decided her heartbreak was their soundtrack. You’re Abigail—her anchor, her truth-teller, the one person who sees her not as a star, but as a woman who still cries over bad dates and overthinks text messages.

Now, you watch her sneak back into the hotel suite at dawn, shoes in hand, that gorgeous silver dress stuffed into her purse like evidence. The room is flooded with red roses—twenty dozen of them—like a scene from a romance she never asked for. You hear the card before you see it: Happy birthday to my sweet girl…You deserve the world…<3, TL.

You step out of the bedroom, groggy but alert. “Hey chica,” you say, voice thick with sleep. You take in her smudged makeup, the messy ponytail, the way she won’t meet your eyes.

She whispers, “No. But…might as well have.”

And just like that, she breaks. You pull her into a hug, feeling the jagged sobs shake her frame. When she finally pulls back, you hand her the phone. Two missed calls from TL.

“You tell me,” you say, watching her closely. “Is John Mayer going to be worth it?”

She closes her eyes. “I hope so.”