Nova [Tayvis Fanfiction]

GRAVITY

Taylor Swift's Point of View
I sit just outside Travis's room, feeling helpless as I stare through the glass. He looks so fragile, pale, and unmoving, with tubes and wires connecting him to monitors and machines beeping softly. The breathing tube is taped around his mouth, and seeing him like this, so vulnerable, it takes everything in me not to push past the door and stay by his side. All I want is to hold his hand, to feel that he's really still here. But the ICU's visiting rules are strict, and for now, I can only watch.

Footsteps echo down the hall, and I look up to see one of Travis's doctors. I stand, catching his attention. "Do you know when he's going to wake up?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady but hearing the tremor slip through.

The doctor stops and gives me a reassuring nod. "He should be waking up any minute now. Generally, it doesn't take long for patients to come around after taking them off the medication. It's rare for it to take more than a couple days."

I nod, my hands clasped tightly in front of me. "Thank you."

He offers a small smile before heading down the hall, and I sink back into my chair, my gaze drifting back to Travis. Minutes tick by, slow and endless, my mind racing with the what-ifs and hoping that he opens his eyes soon. I glance up at the clock, then back at him, watching for even the slightest movement.

Five Days Post Accident
My anxiety builds with each passing second. It's been two days. Two days since the medicine was completely worn off and they assured me he'd wake up soon. But he's still not awake. His body remains completely still, and the only thing I hear are the machines keeping track of his pulse and breathing. My stomach twists tighter, and I grip the edge of my chair, my knuckles turning white. He should be awake by now, shouldn't he?

I force myself to breathe, but it feels like the air has become thicker, harder to inhale. Maybe it's just the waiting, the endless uncertainty that's slowly suffocating me.

A doctor approaches, his expression neutral but his steps measured, his clipboard clutched tightly in his hands. My heart lurches. I stand quickly, nearly knocking over my chair in the process. "How is he?" I ask, voice shaking more than I want it to.

The doctor hesitates, looking down at his notes before meeting my gaze. "He's still not awake. We're starting to become concerned."

The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. My knees feel weak, but I force myself to stay standing. "What?" I whisper, my heart pounding in my chest. "What do you mean, concerned?"

He takes a slow breath, and the air feels cold as I brace for what he's about to say. "We'd like to run some additional tests. We're not seeing the expected signs of recovery. It's possible there's an issue that needs addressing."

My mind goes blank for a moment, and I can barely hear him over the roaring in my ears. But I force myself to focus, to be present, to listen. "What kind of tests?" I manage to ask, my voice trembling.

"With your permission, of course," he says, "we'll conduct a series of scans and neurological tests to rule out any complications, such as a stroke or other concerns."

My throat tightens. "Do whatever you need," I say, though my words are barely audible, a distant echo of the panic welling up inside me. "Please, just—just make sure he's okay."

The doctor nods and walks away, his footsteps fading as I stand frozen in the hallway, staring at the door to Travis's room. A part of me doesn't want to know what's happening. But the other part of me needs to. I need answers. I can't lose him. Not now. Not like this.

Ten Days Post Accident
I have barely left the hospital. I'm sitting in the same waiting room, though the hours feel like days, the minutes like an eternity. Fear gnaws at me, relentless, every second a reminder that Travis is still not awake. It's been over a week. The doctors keep assuring me that it's normal, that sometimes patients take longer to wake up from surgery, but their words don't reach me. I hear them, but they don't make me feel any better. I can't shake this feeling that something is terribly wrong.