Dear Reader- Taylor Swift

Part 1

"I love you," the words tumble out her mouth between kisses, her face buried in my neck as her skin brushes against mine at every opportunity she can get.

Although the second the words are slipping past her lips, I'm pushing her off me, clawing at the sheets to hide my body as I move to get as far away from her as possible.

"What did you just say?" I ask, my whole body shaking as I look at her, her head tilting to the side, my brows furrowing in confusion as she glances at me, cowering in the corner. Both of us were overwhelmed with confusion.

God, I'm pathetic.

"I love you," she repeats, although it isn't a light moan this time. It's a serious statement. Shit. Does she really think she means those words? I thought, hoped; it was just a slip of the tongue that she was caught up in the moment and said something she didn't mean.

But she was bloody serious.

Shit.

Not that I can take a word she is saying seriously right now. This is why I laugh at how serious she looks while saying the three words most would kill to hear, especially from her.

"Why are you laughing? I love you," she repeated again, moving off the bed as she tried to take my hand, but I shook her off, backing further into the corner as my laughs became hysterical. I can't touch her right now. I can't smell her. I can't touch her. I can't look at her. If I do, I'll be trapped in her. So, all I do is laugh.

How can she say this to me? How can she put me through this? How can she do this to me? Why am I letting her do this to me? Jeez, I need to grow a backbone.

"You love me?" I somehow manage to get out between the laughter, shaking my head in disbelief. But also trying to shake the image of her deadly serious look out of my mind. "You don't love me, Taylor. You don't even know me," I dismiss, still shaking my head as I refuse to believe her claim. How can she claim to love someone when she knows nothing about them?

All she knows about me is that I'm a good shag. That is it. Because to her, I understand I am nothing more than a good quick fuck. How could I be anything more when the moment I pretend to drift off to sleep, she is out of here quicker than the bloody flash?

"Of course, I love you, Belle. How could I not?" She tries again, still reaching for me, but I just ignore her, moving past her to find my clothes that she had thrown around the room the second I walked into the secret flat she was renting just for our rendezvous, making sure to keep the sheet wrapped around me tightly.

I need to get out of here. I can't be here. I can feel the walls closing in. Is the room getting smaller? It feels so much smaller than it usually does.

She makes me feel small, and right now, I am tiny and pathetic and even that won't stop the walls closing in on me.

"Why is Belle my nickname? Did you even know that Belle isn't my name, that it's some silly nickname I got from my Mum? Where did I grow up? Where do I work? What do I even do for a job? Do I have siblings? Do I like cheesecake? How old am I? Do I have parents? Do I like musicals? Do I cry when I watch sad movies? What do I want to do most in life? What's my favourite colour? Do I like to read? What do I do when I'm sad? Do I like sports? Can I dance? Italian or Greek for dinner? DC or Marvel? Do I like to travel? Why am I in New York? Crime dramas or true crime? Do I believe in love? What's my name? Do you know the answer to any of those questions?" I accuse as I slip my jeans back on, still looking for my bra as I keep the sheet clutched to my chest. I hated the idea of her eyes on my skin at this second.