Work Text:
She is six years old, the first time she asks her father to tell her about soulmates.
The sky is overcast, and every surface in the room seems to glow in the weak sunlight, silvery white in the late afternoon. The hair crowning her father's head is grey in some parts, too, though she is too young to really understand why; she only thinks that he looks a little like an angel with his chrome halo, almost luminescent in the light.
"Some people," he begins, propping her up in his lap, "say it's a bit like becoming aware of the pain from a wound you didn't know you had. Like suddenly realizing there's a half of you that was missing."
Taylor still remembers that day now, remembers the way she felt, the way she sat in awe of the words coming out of his mouth, and sometimes wonders how she could ever have missed how wistful he sounded, as if he'd lost the sensation a long time ago, or had never felt it before. She'd only half understood his explanation when she heard it then, and Taylor still doesn't think she really knows what he meant. You're supposed to know from the beginning, when you get your mark, that someone out there is waiting for you, waiting to make you whole.
And how does it make sense, that it should hurt more after you've found your soulmate.
When Taylor is eight years old, the sun burns itself into the skin on the inside of her wrist.
The moment it happens is totally unremarkable. The lamp on her desk shines brightly, the sky inky black outside the window in her bedroom. Downstairs, her parents murmur quietly, the house still for once as Austin sleeps in their arms. Taylor is scribbling in her notebook, her words, sprawling and loopy even then, forming the beginnings of a poem; something inconsequential, about little elves that live on Christmas tree farms.
Karen at school got her mark last week, brandishing her wrist proudly, the little apple on it bright and obvious. Their teacher had forgone their usual schedule and lectured them on the meanings of certain marks.
"There are many different symbols that your marks can take on," Ms. Garcia had said, gesturing to the soft skin of her own wrist, where a little book was visible. The other children sat with their chins propped on their hands, eyes blinking sleepily. They weren't like Taylor; they didn't know any better. "Although your mark can be identical to another person's, they can mean different things to different people." Taylor nodded along with every word.
People almost always start getting marks when they're eleven or twelve, except for a couple exceptions; her mom got her miniature bulleted list when she was six, and some people don't get them until much later. Taylor would know, she's read all about it.
Anyway, it isn't a surprise. She isn't one to be shown up, and she's always known what she wants. Taylor has been ready for this since that late afternoon in her father's study, the day she committed his words to memory. So even though she's about four years too early, she isn't taken by surprise. Taylor's sitting there one moment, writing her poem, when pain flares in her wrist, white-hot, as if a piece of the sun really did find its home in her skin, and then she has her mark the next.
Her heart flutters excitedly like a hummingbird's wings, and she carefully sets her pencil crayon down, smoothing out the pages in front of her, before turning the inside of her left wrist towards her.
She's not surprised, no, but she's disappointed, sort of; it's not exactly what she was expecting. A crown, maybe, a sword, a knight in shining armour. A castle or palace, a carriage, a fleur-de-lis. The sun is all but ordinary in comparison to her fantasies. The sun is nothing to write home about. The sun, well.
It's a bit of a letdown, really.
Taylor doesn't ever stop obsessing over soulmates and the mark on her wrist, but she doesn't exactly fixate on them, either. She focuses more on her writing and, as they always have, her words heavily feature fairytale endings and fated romances. Eventually, poems and writing and reading turn into songs and singing and performing.
She imagines that somewhere out there, someone's mark, previously a line of poetry or a pen, transforms into a piano, or a bar of music. There's never been a definite instance of someone's mark changing that has been recorded in the past, but Taylor figures her soulmate's could be the first, and she's kind of still holding out for her own to change.
At eleven years old, Taylor gets her first taste of the real world when rejection after rejection comes pouring in from all directions. The record labels are less impressed with her singing than her stuffed animals were, and she works harder, sings better, tries to be more special than her parents have always assured her she is.
When she turns fourteen, the Swift family officially moves to Nashville, bringing with them her newly signed development deal. Taylor gets her first boyfriend in high school, fully aware that he isn't the sun etched onto her wrist, and she isn't the pink diamond he makes her out to be.
In the summer before she turns sixteen, she signs her first real contract, and that's where it really takes off.
(Her publicist asks her right away if she's going to be writing any songs about the mark on her wrist, if she's going to show it off or keep it quiet.
Sixteen and young and not really sure of anything yet, except that she needs to be different and unique and special, and the mark on her wrist is none of those things, she says no, and the little sun becomes nothing more than a vaguely indistinct blur in the tabloids. Not exactly hidden, but definitely not for anyone to know about.
It is the single best, and worst, decision of her life.)
She has a quarter note on her wrist.
Never mind the sun on Taylor's, hers is a musical note, and Taylor has always believed in fairytales and fate. She thinks it's meant to be, thinks that this girl being in Taylor's band is a kind of destiny. And besides, she has blonde hair that shines like the sun, and wasn't that enough.
Later, Taylor writes Breathe, and for the first time, she actually writes her song about another genuine person, and it's a shame, that it has to be an apology.
The ones that come after all have guitars or musical notes, or something similar, on their wrists, too, even the ones her publicist chooses for her. It becomes her signature: Taylor Swift desperately searches for her soulmate by looking for musical marks, even though she can't even sing, and Taylor Swift hides her mark from her boyfriends in the hopes that they won't realize she's not their soulmate.
And if that wasn't a sign that she needed a change in management, well.
That was her fault then.
One of her new boyfriends—his mark is a little microphone—asks her, once, while they're out on a scheduled date, if any of it was real, John and the fireworks on his wrist, and Taylor and her sun, which isn't a secret anymore because her publicist wants to try something new.
And she tells him—because this one's actually kind of nice, and if she believed he was the one, she might actually want it to work out—that she isn't much for the type of fire that consumes you anymore, that you can't control.
Taylor spends a lot more time with her parents than she used to, comes home to her mother sometimes to cry on her shoulder when the media's comments get to be too much, or just to collapse in her father's arms, frailer now than she remembers them.
The sun on her wrist becomes the bane of her existence, just another chink in her fragile armour for the paparazzi and fans to chip away at her from. These days she hates it more than anything in the world, and she comes to watch her parents any chance she gets, to witness the love they have for each other; to restore her faith in the system.
Except—and she cries when she realizes—when they go out as a family, Scott and Andrea and Austin and Taylor, like it used to be, she catches them eyeing the marks on every person they pass, the same as her.
Some days she steps away from everything, and just remembers the way it was before. Before she started caring about the marks. Before she knew what she wanted to do with her life.
It's bittersweet, because that nostalgic, blissful oblivion is like a calming balm on her stress and her nerves, cool and sweet relief like her mother's lemonade on a hot summer's day. Once, Taylor's life was only miracles and magic, and fairytales that end perfectly; petty competitions with her brother, and walking in between the towering figures of her parents, one hand in each of theirs. Once, she was young and naive, and ignorant of that wistful note in her father's voice, of the way her mother clutches the mark on her wrist to her heart sometimes, like she's protecting it, or herself, or maybe both. Once upon a time, no one cared who Taylor was, and not until she stepped into the limelight did Taylor ever realize she didn't, either. She had only ever wanted her happily ever after.
And it brings her to tears, realizing that it's just not enough anymore, and it won't ever be enough. Taylor left that quiet life years ago, abandoned it the moment she moved to Nashville with her family, discovered something she loved more than life itself. And she would have to love it more than life, or else it would never be worth it.
So, sweet and lovely as five-year-old Taylor was, her wrist pale and bare, that life would be settling for less; settling for a finished puzzle that isn't quite right, where that one piece is just a shade too light, doesn't fit the way it really should.
Sometimes, she thinks she wants a little more than her share of what the world has to offer her; occupies a bit more room than she's been allotted. But she figures it's fair, given how much of herself she gives up in return.
After Red, it gets a little easier. The lights are a little less harsh, the shouts a little less shrill. Like the world around her was once a blazing wildfire on all sides, and it's calmer now than it was somehow, softer and brighter. Warmer.
The cold is just seeping between the cracks of Los Angeles a month before her twenty-fourth birthday when she boards a plane headed for the East Coast for the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. New York is beautiful and Taylor toys briefly with the idea of settling down in the city, with its hustle and bustle and its four seasons. At the venue, Lily introduces her to the other models backstage, including Karlie Kloss, whom she's been dying to meet forever, and she is just as sweet and lovely as people have been telling her for years.
On the runway, surrounded by flashing lights and drifting snow, Taylor sings like she loves it, like it's meant to be, and she dominates the stage like it's her home. The music ricochets inside her ribcage until she can feel it vibrating in her bones; she gets to see one of her best friends kill it on stage, and she even has a moment—or two—with Karlie. Taylor forgets all about the mark on her wrist, and thinks this is probably what it feels like to be free.
Time moves faster than it did before, and suddenly she's spending less time at her parents' and more time with Karlie, who's honestly even cooler once you really get to know her.
Karlie is young and wonderful and bright, like the world hasn't gotten its claws in her yet, and Taylor doesn't think it ever will. Karlie is just indestructible like that, fearless like Taylor wishes she could be. In the dry, cutthroat wasteland that this industry is, Karlie is like an oasis on the horizon; sometimes, Taylor still doesn't know if she's real or just a mirage, waiting to be swept away from her reach.
Karlie is good for her, in ways she'll never be able to fully express. She's like a breath of fresh air in the acrid environment they live in, and she lets Taylor catch glimpses of her version of the world, reminds her how simple things can be.
Taylor wants to get a haircut, Karlie tells her to do it. Taylor thinks she might like to have a life somewhere new, Karlie encourages her to go for it. Taylor wants to go on a road trip, Karlie asks if she can come too. When they hug, Taylor doesn't even pause at the sight of the mark on Karlie's wrist, the red crown inconspicuous, and the idea of soulmates seems completely irrelevant when she's with her.
Emboldened by the last couple of months, and proud and certain in the new her, a version of herself who's brave and free and invincible, Taylor takes the trip to visit her parents in Nashville, and she asks her mother to tell her the truth. They cry buckets of tears between them, and share hugs and reassurances and I love you's.
"It's not as if I don't love him," Andrea tells her, eyes shiny with tears. "I love your father more than anything, and I know he loves me too." She tucks a strand of Taylor's hair, short like Karlie's now, behind her ear. "Sometimes that's enough; to love and be loved."
The sun shines, vivid and warm, through the window, and the room glows golden, and Taylor remembers, for the first time in years, how beautiful the world can be.
New York is teetering between winter and summer, the last of the cold weather blowing through the city in spring, when Taylor realizes she hasn't thought about the mark on her wrist in more than three months.
She made a resolution at the beginning of the year that she wouldn't check the media outlets obsessively for news about her like she's done every year for nearly the last decade. She left that job to her new publicist, who has already started fixing every mistake Taylor's last one made.
Stopped short in the kitchen of her new apartment, Taylor has to check to make sure the sun, bright and yellow, is still there. For once in her life, seeing it on her left wrist where it should be—as if it wasn't already strange enough—gives her a foreign and odd sense of relief.
Thinking about it now, Taylor wonders if she is less concerned with the mark because she's been so happy recently, even without it and everything that it entails. Of course, she wouldn't mind meeting her soulmate, but that would just be the cherry on top of the veritable mountain of happiness Taylor has experienced in the last few months. She has a new album on the way that she's writing the way she wants, and a group of friends that have supported, and will continue to support her, every step of the way. As wonderful as having her soulmate would be, Taylor is content with what she has now, and that's enough for her.
Someone bangs on the door to her apartment, and Taylor smiles wide and bright, nearly skipping to go answer it. She swings the door open excitedly, and Selena stands on the threshold, hunched up in her coat.
"Thank god, it's fucking freezing. I don't know how you can stand it here," the shorter girl says, lips trembling and air whistling between her chattering teeth. Selena pauses at the sight of Taylor in front of her, eyes narrowing at the set of her white teeth, bared in her smile.
Taylor laughs, loud and carefree. "What are you talking about? It's so sunny!"
"It's just so great," Taylor gushes, having told the other girl about her realization now that they're both settled in front of her coffee table, a tin of cookies and two mugs between them. Selena clutches hers to her chest, steam wicking off the surface of her hot chocolate. "I don't remember the last time I've felt like this."
Selena hums, her legs tucked beneath her. Meredith jumps onto the couch between them, and Taylor coos at her, scratching at the soft fur around her neck. "Why do you think that is?" Selena asks curiously.
Olivia scampers into the room next, as if sensing her sister getting more attention than her, jumping onto the table and standing on her haunches. "Oh my god," Taylor squeals, completely distracted. "Do you see this right now? Is this actually happening in real life?" She scrambles for her phone on the arm of her side of the couch to commemorate the moment.
Selena rolls her eyes at the other girl's antics. She waits until Taylor has taken her pictures—plural—before broaching the subject again. "Taylor?"
"Hm?" Taylor replies absentmindedly, swiping through her photos. "Right, sorry." She locks her phone and sets it aside. "What did you say?" She grins sheepishly. Selena rolls her eyes again.
"I asked you why you think that is." When Taylor's face doesn't register any sign of recognition, Selena gestures with her hand. "You know, why do you think you're so happy now? How come it's not like ... before?" she whispers hesitantly.
Taylor smiles reassuringly. "I don't know. I think it's a culmination of a lot of things. I have plenty of great things going on right now. They're finally letting me do what I want with my album. I have a bunch of great friends." She reaches out to squeeze Selena's delicate hand. "Life is just really great right now," Taylor continues, looking around her beautiful apartment. "Oh! Moving to New York, too! The city is so cool. You should come live here." Taylor's eyes widen. "Oh my god, please move here, that would make it perfect!" She takes both of Selena's hands in hers now, and Selena laughs, fumbling to place her mug on the table before it spills. "New York is just ..." Taylor sighs softly. "It's incredible. I know you know how much I used to struggle with everything," she says. "Here, it all just disappears. Every worry I've ever had.
"It's the soulmate thing, too," she adds. "I used to be so preoccupied with finding mine, like I thought I needed to, to be able to live my life to the fullest. But everything's just so bright and ... it's like the sun never stops shining here." Meredith's ears perk. Taylor rolls her eyes at herself. "Which is kind of ridiculous, considering the disparity in weather between LA and New York, but." She shrugs.
Selena raises an eyebrow. "Right," she drawls. "I've noticed how much happier you've been since moving." Her eyes flit quickly to a picture frame over Taylor's shoulder, then back again before the other girl can notice. "You were deciding between here and somewhere else, weren't you?"
"Yeah," Taylor responds absently. Her eyes are downcast, focused on their hands, as she plays with the younger girl's fingers. "Decided on New York, in the end. A lot closer to home, you know?"
"Right, right," Selena mumbles again, thoughtful. She chooses her next words carefully, tone deliberately casual. "Hey, Karlie Kloss lives here too, doesn't she? How is she?"
The smile that graces Taylor's face unthinkingly is so sweet that Selena's teeth ache at the sight of it, and she bites down on the grin threatening to break out on her face. Dust motes hover in the air, suspended in the sunlight surrounding them; Taylor's eyelashes, sweeping low, seem to burn white like little feathers as she plays with Selena's fingers in her lap, intertwining them with hers. The heart on Selena's wrist, shaped almost like an infinity sign, sits in stark relief on her skin, but Taylor doesn't even notice it.
"She's amazing," Taylor says softly, completely absorbed in her own thoughts. She doesn't notice the way Selena smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I love her," she whispers. "You guys definitely need to meet! I know you'd totally love her too. She is absolute sunshine," Taylor says, finally looking up to beam at Selena.
Selena bursts into laughter, high and tinkly like chimes, and Taylor thinks the sound is perfect in this brave new world of hers, so Taylor laughs too, riding all kinds of highs. "What's so funny?"
The room is big and comfortable, and the mugs have cooled down on the coffee table, but Selena's hands are warm in Taylor's, and New York seems a little less cold. She considers, for a moment, telling her everything, but she looks again at the photo of Taylor and Karlie over the blonde girl's shoulder, and then back at the radiant girl in front of her, and decides not to; not now.
"Nothing," she says instead. "I'd love to."
"Come on, Taylor! It wasn't that bad."
Taylor lifts her head from the hardwood floor she's been laying face down on for the past five minutes and gives the other girl a withering glare.
Karlie laughs loudly, neck stretched and glistening with sweat. "Well, okay. It wasn't exactly easy," she concedes, extending her right hand to help Taylor up. The singer grasps it tightly, before promptly pulling the model down onto the floor with her. The other girl's body shakes with her laughter and the back of her head bangs worryingly against the ground, but she only giggles even harder.
In the afternoon light shining through the wall of glass, Karlie's smooth skin seems to reflect a spectrum of gold and white, and the sunlight crowns her newly blonde hair, the colour seeping out of it completely, cheeks flushing like blooming flowers in contrast; Taylor thinks she looks otherworldly. Karlie's head lolls to the side, and she smiles at Taylor for a long, blissful moment. Her grin widens devilishly, and her eyebrows arch sharply, before she surges forward and rubs her sweaty face against Taylor. The singer shrieks, shrinking away from her and pushing her head away roughly. "Oh my god! Stop, stop, stop! Karlie!"
The taller girl's eyes narrow and crinkle up with her smile, and she sticks her tongue out. "That's what you get."
Taylor rolls her eyes. "Your workouts are a cruel and unusual punishment," she says dryly, "you deserved it." She pauses. "Also, you laughed at me."
It's Karlie's turn to roll her eyes. "It wasn't that bad!" she repeats indignantly. "Anyway, you'll get used to it." She gets up and holds out her hand again.
Taylor grabs it in earnest and Karlie hoists her up like she weighs nothing. She sighs melodramatically. "Only for you, Kloss."
Karlie is leaning against the locker door beside Taylor's, playing around on her phone while waiting patiently, when she returns, dressed up and ready to go. "Sorry," the singer says quietly, pulling her purse from the metal compartment.
"No worries," Karlie says easily, putting her phone away. They leave the locker room, and security quickly ushers them outside. Cameras bombard them and flash mechanically from all sides, and Taylor focuses only on the suburban waiting on the curb, acutely aware of the girl still behind her. She catches a glimpse of her white teeth, and hears snatches of her voice in polite reply to the paparazzi surrounding them, before they reach the black vehicle. Taylor clambers in, and she feels Karlie's hand, fleetingly warm on the small of her back, before the other girl climbs in after her, pulling the door in with her.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Taylor rushes out as soon as it slams shut. "I'm really sorry, I know how unpleasant that can be." Her hands flounder between them frantically as the car moves forward and she continues to stumble over her words.
"Taylor!" Karlie shouts over her rambling. She stills Taylor's hands with her own. "You've apologized, like, a hundred times by now. Today alone. I told you, it's fine." Taylor releases a large breath, letting herself calm down. They're quiet for a while, the only sound the gentle purr of the engine.
"You're very good with this," Taylor comments hesitantly. "I—in the past, people have been pretty freaked out by it all." She doesn't bother clarifying who she means.
Karlie shrugs, green eyes questioning as they flicker between Taylor's. The singer smiles to show her she's fine. "I'm not the one they care about," Karlie says casually after a moment. "You're the superstar here." She flashes her a genuine, close-lipped smile.
Taylor scoffs. "Says the girl with the cookie business, who's learning to code on top of being a world class supermodel." The model in question smiles bashfully.
"I just mean that whatever you've experienced and are experiencing is probably twenty times worse than what I have to deal with." She turns to face forward serenely. "Besides, I get you out of the deal. It could definitely be worse," she teases, glancing at her from the corner of her eye.
Taylor giggles, shy now herself. "Well, I get you out of it, too. I get to hang out with you," she says warmly. "You know, even if it's just so I can suffer in a professional setting."
Taylor forgets they were even holding hands until Karlie lets hers go to shove her shoulder. "Jerk," she says in a faux-offended voice.
"Love you, too," Taylor coos.
"Oh, Selena was here the other day, and I was saying how you guys should meet," Taylor tells Karlie excitedly as she stands at the stove in her kitchen. The aroma of Karlie's shampoo swirls around the room among the scents of dinner—vegetarian—and the flowers in the vase on the counter by her fridge; dahlias, some of Karlie's favourites.
She hears Karlie hesitate behind her. "Is it silly that she intimidates me a little?" Taylor turns to give Karlie an amused look before focusing on the food again. "It's just that she's one of your oldest and closest friends, and I really want her to like me. Right of passage, you know? Parent's approval," Karlie elaborates.
"Is Selena my mom in this situation?" Taylor asks, facing Karlie now. The model stares back, unamused. "Aw, Selena's a teddy bear, honestly. She's like, half your height." Karlie grumbles, and Taylor grins as she rubs a comforting hand along her bicep. "Honest. She really wants to meet you, too!"
"Really?" Karlie asks reluctantly.
"Really. I mean, my glowing recommendation was obviously a contributing factor," she continues. Karlie rolls her eyes. "No seriously, I was telling her how much I loved you and how much she'd love you. Who wouldn't," Taylor adds without thought, "you're complete sunshine." She continues to rub Karlie's arm, before the mark on her left wrist catches her attention like a beacon. She stares for a moment, vaguely confused. Slowly, Taylor's insides turn to ice, and she dazedly lets her hand drop like stone.
"Thanks Taylor," Karlie whispers tenderly, the corners of her lips curling upwards.
Taylor doesn't see, eyes still focused on the sun on her wrist as her face drains of colour, and she looks as though she's just seen a ghost. "Yeah," she replies shakily, "no—no problem."
Things change so suddenly that Taylor doesn't even notice. Or maybe she just wasn't paying attention and that's why this seems to come at her like a ton of bricks.
It's like, one moment, everything's fine, work on the new album is going great, the media hasn't said anything worthy of note in a while, and she moved to New York instead of London because Karlie—
Well. Maybe Taylor really should have paid a bit more attention.
So much for not thinking about soulmates.
When she was younger, Taylor adored Cinderella, because even though the prince doesn't have anything on his wrist to guide him, no marking of fire or ashes, or mice and glass slippers, he knows that she's the one for him.
In some stories, people don't have marks to help them find their soulmates. But in the stories and the movies, people still end up together like it's meant to be, and they find love that's perfect for them, even though they don't have any symbol to tell them that they're two halves of a whole. Taylor never used to think that was very realistic. It's probably hard, to find your soulmate when there's nothing on your wrist to tell you what's right.
And anyway, it helps you pick and choose, to narrow down candidates, so you don't have to waste your time going after people that your symbol, not in your wildest dreams, could ever be for.
The topic of soulmates never really comes up between them. Probably because Taylor knows how it feels to be picked apart by people asking insensitive questions, and she doesn't want that for anyone. Also, Karlie is sweet and caring like that, and she's probably seen the way the media has ripped into Taylor, and doesn't want to contribute to that in any way.
It's a Saturday afternoon and they're in her kitchen when Taylor brings it up. The sun shines bright through the open windows, washing her floors almost entirely white, and the oven is still warm from the cookies cooling on the counter. She tries to be as subtle as she possibly can, feigning indifference, but she hangs onto Karlie's words like they're the only thing keeping her from drowning.
"Must be nice to have found your soulmate," she says in a wistful tone, watching the other girl. From the corner of her eye, she sees Karlie freeze, a cookie suspended in front of her mouth. "It's been three years, right?"
Karlie looks nervous and uncomfortable, and Taylor feels awful, but she wants to hear this, so she soldiers onwards. "Right," she murmurs, eyes downcast. She begins to break the uneaten cookie in her hand into pieces.
"What's his mark?" Taylor asks, watching the model's fluttering eyelashes. "I mean, if you want to tell me," she hastens to add, hesitating at the sight of the crumbling dessert in front of her. "I was just wondering what symbol you—"
"No, it's fine," Karlie interrupts. "Um. Josh has a bow tie on his wrist," she says. The bracelets on her arm jangle together, and she seems to rub the skin underneath almost unconsciously.
"Mm," Taylor hums pensively. Karlie stares at the mess she's made, head lowered. "I think you're more of a white shirt and blazer kind of girl, but a bow tie is nice, too."
Karlie's head whips up, green eyes wide. There's a surprised look on her face, and for a moment, she stares. Taylor looks back innocently. Outside the window, a car horn beeps, urging another to go.
Karlie smiles slowly, and she laughs softly. "Yeah, I think so, too."
"I know he's not the one," Karlie tells her later. "So does Josh. It's just ... comfortable. We're just waiting for the right people to come along," she finishes, picking up another cookie. Taylor's mood plummets, and she suddenly becomes very interested in the woodwork of the table.
"Right," Taylor mutters.
(Karlie shows her the red crown, and she can't help the surge of jealousy. Once, she would have wanted a symbol like that. There's someone out there, someone handsome and strong and princely, waiting for Karlie. But all she can think is how much she wishes it was something else: a guitar, maybe, a musical note; even a cat would have been fine.)
Like a switch has been flipped, Taylor becomes consumed, again, by the concept of soulmates and the mark on her wrist.
Except, this time, it's different.
Now, when she's out with her family—Andrea and Scott, and Austin and Taylor, like before—she doesn't look at the marks on people's wrists anymore. She doesn't read the news items about her and her suspected boyfriends; Taylor doesn't check the media outlets for articles about the yellow sun on her wrist.
No, what she does is worse. Instead, Taylor thinks about the red crown on Karlie's, and fantasizes about what it would be like if it was meant for her.
And it's generic, it could mean anything. But she wants so much for the sun on her skin to mean Karlie, to mean the warm pumping of her blood through her veins when she's with her, the radiant shine of her smile, the burning heat of Karlie's hand in hers.
In hindsight, she thinks her father had it all wrong, that afternoon he looked like a silver angel. He was in the same position as Taylor is now; they could only dream and wonder and wish, and be completely and totally wrong.
She had lived by her father's words for so much of her life, and only now does she really consider how baseless and meaningless they are. He'd said something sad and meek, like people are broken all their lives, except they don't realize it until they meet their soulmates.
It's not like that for Taylor.
It's like she wishes she were broken, like she wishes a piece was missing so she could have Karlie complete her.
(It's only later she realizes that she doesn't have to be incomplete for Karlie to make her whole.)
The first time, it's an accident.
Maybe Taylor is being a little sentimental, remembering the day she took that picture on the coast of California, and the way the sun cast dappled shadows on the forest floor like the ones made by the other girl's eyelashes on her cheeks. Maybe she's being a little reckless. Maybe she's listening to her heart for once.
After, when she's staring at the tweet she's just made, the one she didn't double-check and analyze before posting, the blood runs cold in her veins.
100% sunshine. 100% sunshine. God, what was she thinking?
It's common knowledge by now, the mark on her wrist; when this spreads, the media is going to rip her apart. Taylor can't take the tweet down either, what with the likely thousands of records of it already circulating from fan to fan and media outlet to media outlet. Deleting the tweet would do more to ruin her than the damning thing itself.
Her stomach churns sickeningly at the thought. Slowly, she closes the lid on her laptop and sits rigid in her seat. Already, she's dreading the headlines, the scolding of her publicist.
But, when she's been sitting in silence for at least an hour, agonizing over every little thing in her head, she still has yet to hear a word from Tree. In the fashion of a person deconstructing a bomb, she cracks open her laptop and checks the news. She'd expected headlines like Taylor Swift Finally Settles Down with Soulmate After Long Line of False Starts, or Taylor Swift Broadens Scope of Soulmate Search by Adding Girls to Roster of Candidates.
What she didn't expect was how genial they'd be.
Just like with any of her birthday messages to her other friends, the media outlets only comment on how wonderful America's sweetheart is, how lovely her message is; how this one very public tweet shows how Karlie is the highlight of her life—which is probably the only thing they got right—and it shows her something.
Not even the media thinks Karlie could ever be her soulmate.
It makes her feel so despicable, but sometimes, for one vulnerable moment, Taylor wishes Karlie would stay with Josh forever. That she would never meet her soulmate, so that Taylor could have her forever, too.
It's disgusting, and Taylor always feels physically sick afterwards to the point where her eyes water with whatever is threatening to claw up her throat, and it feels as though an anvil is pressing down on her chest. She remembers then that even if Karlie found her prince, found that undefinable happiness, Taylor would still have her, the way they are now, because Karlie is lovely and wonderful and not despicable like her.
And that's when Taylor wishes more than anything that Karlie would find her soulmate, find that happiness, more than Taylor has ever wished it for herself.
The problem isn't that Karlie's taken and Karlie isn't her soulmate. No, that's totally fine. Karlie isn't what's wrong about the situation here. It's Taylor. It's that she's still achingly happy; Taylor's life is still perfect, and she wishes, she wishes, she wishes, for the first time in her life, that that wasn't the case.
This time, she's in Los Angeles and the sun is beating down on her back as she makes her way to the building. Taylor storms up to the front door and bangs on it until it opens, Selena looking up at her expectantly on the other side. Taylor didn't tell her anything when she asked if she could come over, only that she really needed to talk to her. For an instant, the only sound that can be heard is the taller girl's shallow pants, and her skin shines faintly with the sheen of her sweat. The air conditioning in Selena's home blows through the doorway, and Taylor shivers minutely.
Selena pulls her in and locks the door, sitting her down on the couch in her living room. She watches Taylor's face for a moment, until it crumbles into a weak and sad smile. Selena's face turns sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Taylor," she whispers, arms coming up to envelop the taller girl.
The sad thing is, Taylor can never really be disappointed, because Karlie already makes her so happy.
She'd said once that having her soulmate would only be the cherry on top of the immense happiness she already experiences day to day. Taylor had admitted that she already asks for more from the world than she really deserves.
Taylor has had her share of the sun; it's unfair to ask for it to be sunny all the time.
As they always do, things get better. August passes painfully slow, then September is easier, and October rolls around in a flurry of preparations for the album. 1989 explodes onto the charts when it is released, and it is so much more than Taylor ever could have anticipated. Every time she puts something new out, she never thinks it'll do as well as her last album, but Taylor thinks this one will be her best yet.
Other than getting a lot busier, nothing really changes. Taylor's life is nothing if not based on routine: her weeks are filled with promo for the album, and filming music videos for the singles that will come out of it. The interviewers this time around ask her about her friends and her life as an empowered woman, and her mark doesn't come up in an interview question even once. She still continues to spend time with Karlie any opportunity she gets, and although she never stops vehemently wishing for the sun on her wrist to mean the other girl, she becomes okay with the idea that it doesn't. What had her mother said? To love and be loved. Taylor would make that enough for her.
Taylor has been on multiple magazine covers, and even the cover of Vogue before, and went to the photo shoot for every one of them, but being on set is completely different when she's with Karlie.
The model greets the crew members like they're old friends—which Taylor suspects they really are—and she introduces Taylor to the makeup and stylist team, some of whom she recognizes.
"Didn't we say you two would be perfect for each other?" one asks. Karlie laughs over in her seat as someone fusses over her hair but, for some reason, the words make Taylor blush. The makeup artist working on her pauses, the flush on Taylor's cheeks vivid.
"Is it too hot in here, sweetie? We can turn the A/C up," she says. Taylor blushes harder, and shakes her head furiously.
Malibu in November is about the same as Malibu every other time of the year, and the weather is beautiful, but Taylor still misses New York and its blisteringly cold winds and raging snow storms. The city looks almost like a crystal wonderland in winter, and it reminds her a little of November last year, and the fragment of time when Karlie turned on the runway to look at her, the two of them in their own beautiful, snowy world. The thought makes Taylor smile, and the artist doing her lipstick scolds her good-naturedly. Karlie chuckles quietly, and there's no helping the smudge of lipstick that gets onto Taylor's teeth.
Some of the photos they take make her jaw numb as she grits her teeth and arranges the expression on her face just right. The poses in the trailer especially make her heart twinge a little, and she wonders what they're doing, suggesting shots that are so agonizingly romantic. In truth, the poses, though a bit dramatized, are familiar, and Taylor wonders wildly if someone saw them in Big Sur doing these exact things, but she reminds herself of how isolated they were. That was the beauty of it; they were just two normal girls on a road trip.
She looks over at Karlie pretending to read a book on the bed. The model notices and sends her a smile, the sunlight glinting on her teeth, her hair cascading like a golden waterfall down the side of the mattress. They have to redo the shot, but it soothes the ache in Taylor's heart, like everything about Karlie always does.
As the sun moves across the sky, she begins to warm up to the different poses and the set members, and the shoot becomes less like a job and more like any normal day. This is just Taylor and Karlie, on another of their road trips like Vogue had intended. She smiles and laughs at Karlie's jokes, and they fall together naturally.
When the photos have been taken, they crowd together with the photographer to look at themselves on the monitor. Their marks are oddly absent in every frame, their left wrists always turned away from the camera lens, and Taylor wonders if that is by design. If you didn't know any better, you could almost think the two girls in the pictures didn't have marks, and Taylor remembers the stories and the movies where people find their soulmates without them.
That thought would have set her heart to aching a few months ago, but Taylor thinks again of how happy she is, how blessed she is to be able to do something like this with Karlie—to do anything with Karlie—and it only makes her smile minutely.
She looks up and to the side, and Karlie is already looking right back at her, giving her a wide grin, and for a fraction of a second, Taylor wishes with all her heart that things could be different, but thinks they're okay like this, too.
The landing strip at the airport in London is dry and cracked, and the sun is perched high in the sky when Taylor descends the steps of her private jet.
The weather is practically stifling in comparison to New York in December; Taylor had to shed her winter clothing on the plane. Once her heels click on the asphalt, she is quickly ushered into the backseat of a suburban, and the tinted windows block out the light. She's eager for the show, but rehearsals and filming don't start until tomorrow, so she directs her driver to her hotel.
The ride over is peaceful and quiet, and Taylor watches the city streak by through the window. She remembers again why she once wanted to move here: London is beautiful with its posh streets and buildings, and the city is alive with people. And then she thinks of all the reasons why she didn't, and of Karlie who just wouldn't have it, and suddenly she misses home and the bustle of a different city. She misses her living room and her cats and the girl who seems to always be present in her kitchen.
As if on cue, Taylor's phone, covered almost entirely in the cat stickers they picked out together, vibrates with a text from Karlie, and Taylor scrambles to read it, a grin on her face.
Tomorrow, she thinks; Taylor will get to see her and spend time with her tomorrow, and the day after, and every day that Karlie will have her.
There aren't many things that can top the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show last year in Taylor's list of perfect days, given everything that happened on that occasion, from meeting Karlie for the first time to dancing with her in their personal snow globe, but this year's performance comes pretty close.
Besides how happy performing these songs makes her, especially because of how much work she put into them and how much she had to fight for them to be on the album, walking beside Karlie on the runway is so incredibly beyond words. On any given day, it's difficult for Taylor to look away from the model, but on this stage it's absolutely impossible.
Karlie is utterly breathtaking, and not just because she's in beautiful lingerie—although Taylor is definitely not blind to that fact—but because she's so confident and strong and free. She walks down the runway like Taylor performs on a stage: like it's her domain, and it's such an honour for Taylor to be right beside her while she's doing it, taking her last walk as an Angel. To be holding Karlie's hand like it's meant to be, performing a song that she certainly didn't write for any of her boyfriends like she claims in her interviews. It's almost unbelievable. Taylor would be lucky to walk with Karlie on a stage again, performing alongside her, and she's already been so fortunate to be able to do it four times now.
Under all the fabric and lace, it doesn't matter that the mark on her skin is for someone else. It doesn't matter that, somewhere out there, they have soulmates waiting for them because, here and now, they have each other, and nothing else in the world seems to matter.
It's hard to imagine that they only met a year ago, and Taylor doesn't believe in fairytales anymore, not for a long time now, but it's like they've come full circle; they walked into this separately, and now they're coming out of it hand in hand, and there's something just a little magical about that.
It's funny, that for the media to think some guy is her boyfriend, all Taylor has to do is be in his general vicinity. The same room, or the same event and city. Sometimes, even just being in the same country will do.
For the media to believe that Taylor is dating Karlie, it takes a grainy video of Taylor kissing her cheek, mistaken for her mouth, shot by a random fan at a concert. For the idea of them dating to even register in the public eye. Never mind that Taylor has literally made reference to the mark on her wrist before when referring to Karlie, or that they've spent nearly the entire last couple months together. And even then, the media outlets don't even suggest that Karlie could be her soulmate; it doesn't even cross their minds to hint at it. That should make Taylor relieved, but.
Sometimes, Taylor sort of wishes someone would think they were soulmates, just so Taylor could believe in it a little, too.
She never claimed she was over it.
Taylor wishes almost daily that Karlie was her soulmate, and that she was hers. She wants nothing more than for the sun on her skin to mean Karlie, and for the red crown on Karlie's wrist to mean her. It's all right that she isn't and they're not and they'll never, but—
Taylor never claimed she was over it.
And sometimes it'll just be the most innocuous things. A smudge of chocolate on the corner of her lips. The sharp arch of her eyebrow. How her green eyes seem to dance and shimmer and flash.
The way her hair glows when the light hits it just right, and a bright ring forms around her head like a brilliant halo; the way she smiles wide and bright, her teeth perfectly white, eyes crinkled and lovely, and she is, totally and completely, absolute and utter—
Sunshine.
They're sitting in a cleared out room in her apartment, surrounded by camera equipment and members of the crew from Vogue, and the man asks each girl to describe the other with one emoji. Taylor already knows what to choose, made brave by the knowledge that the media will misconstrue her words as something much more trivial than she meant them.
So. "I know yours," Taylor says. "Yours is the sunshine." It's no surprise, not even to Karlie, who is, not shockingly, a natural in front of the camera and says everything just right, and her thank you is heartfelt and genuine.
But then she says, "You're the princess because she's beautiful and has blue eyes and red lips and blonde hair. And—"
Karlie pauses only for a moment, face perturbed, and if Taylor didn't pay attention to Karlie the way she does, she would have missed the hesitance that slips its way into her voice.
"—she's wearing a crown," and—
Oh.
It's not a fairytale; of course not, it never has been. When soulmates meet for the first time, they don't fall in love just like that. The first time they touch, there is no spark, no jolt, no premonition. Taylor stopped believing in those stories a long time ago.
But she swears that the sun on her wrist burns.
"Look," Karlie says, head turned, eyes downcast. "I don't—I know it's not like that, I know you don't—"
She stops, looks up, eyes vivid and green. The smile on her face is small, sweet, not sad or bitter, and her sincerity makes Taylor's heart ache. "It's wishful thinking. Sometimes it's just nice to think that it means you." Karlie laughs softly at herself, embarrassed. Her left hand comes up to run through her hair, and Taylor can just barely see the red crown peeking through her gold bracelets. "I didn't mean to spring that on you, please believe me when I say I didn't, it just slipped out. Words really aren't my thing," she says, grinning softly at the reference.
When the silence extends, she reaches out and brushes the bangs out of Taylor's eyes before her hand slides down Taylor's arm to clutch her hand, and she crouches so that they're face to face. The touch leaves scorching trails along Taylor's skin. Her fingers skirt the mark on the singer's wrist. "Taylor? I'm sorry, please don't worry about it at all. You don't have to do anything. You can forget about it if you like." And god, how can she be so oblivious, how can she not see? How can she not remember the words Taylor said a moment before Karlie said hers, the words she's been saying for months.
"I don't want to forget," Taylor intones lowly, finally responding.
Karlie's face crumples minutely, as if she's trying to hold back her reaction. "Oh," she says. "I didn't—well I didn't think you'd—care so much." She turns away, her smile completely gone now. "I fucked up. God, I've ruined it," she mutters. Karlie pulls her hand away, as if the touch burns, and isn't that ironic.
She is still murmuring quietly to herself when Taylor steps forward so that they're nearly nose to nose, her voice harder, nearly a growl, when she says, "Karlie." The girl's head snaps up, and her eyes are strained and worried, face pinched.
"Look, Taylor," she says, voice hurried and anxious now, hands gesturing wildly before her, but without touching. Her eyes jump around frantically, never settling on the blue in front of her. "I didn't mean to, okay? Nothing has to change. Nothing at all. Please don't let anything change, I—"
Taylor grabs both of Karlie's hands, the fingers of her right hand snaking underneath the bracelets on Karlie's left wrist, stroking the red crown there. The model stops speaking promptly, mouth clamping shut, and her lips part slightly, eyes wide as if in awe. Taylor continues to rub the soft skin of Karlie's wrist, and the room is quiet except for the sound of their breathing. They never break eye contact, as if they're having another staring contest of their own, this time without speaking and anyone there to watch them.
The movement of Taylor's fingers stops and, slowly, her hands drift up along Karlie's arms, skimming her neck underneath the collar of her shirt. Karlie takes a long, shuddering breath, before the singer's hands tangle in the hair at the back of her neck, and they both move forward like it's meant to be, Karlie downwards as Taylor reaches up, and this time they both lose the contest.
The kiss is soft and sure, their lips touching and parting and coming together again and again. Karlie's hands find Taylor's waist, and then her ribs, her shoulders, her cheeks. They kiss for a long time, until the sun is low in the winter sky and the room turns dusky.
Finally, Karlie pulls away, letting her forehead rest gently against Taylor's and they stay like that for a moment. Karlie laughs breathlessly, as if she still can't believe what just happened, and Taylor joins in, the sound of their laughter utterly perfect in the silence.
The sun sets fully, the room dark but for the city lights glimmering faintly through the window; her skin is warm where Karlie’s hands rest and she can just see the little flecks of light reflecting off of her eyes, and Taylor thinks the room is bright and lovely with the sun standing in front of her.
It's not a fairytale, it never has been, but Taylor thinks there's something just a little magical about how they walked into this separately, and now they've come full circle.