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The mansion was too quiet. Selena had been lying awake in the guest room for an hour, scrolling through her phone, when she heard it: a faint creak, the whisper of bare feet padding across hardwood. She froze, screen-light glinting off her cheek, and then sat up.
“Emma?” she hissed through the cracked door.
Emma Stone’s voice answered back from the next room, weary but sharp, “Not me. I was about to ask if that was you.”
Both women stepped out into the hallway, pajama-clad, hair mussed. Selena in an oversized Lakers shirt, Emma in plaid shorts and a band tee. The noise came again: the sound of a refrigerator opening, the metallic clack of jars shifting, the hollow thump of something dropped onto the counter.
Selena’s eyes widened. “No way…”
Emma arched a brow. “You don’t think…”
They both tiptoed, hushed conspirators, down the long hallway and into the vast kitchen. Moonlight flooded the marble countertops. And there—half-lit by the glow of the open fridge—was Taylor Swift.
She wore a flowing silk nightgown, hair loose and tangled, eyes closed. Her expression was calm, serene, like a sleepwalker caught in a dream. But her hands? They were busy. She tore through leftovers with uncanny precision, stacking slices of cake on a plate, scooping macaroni salad directly into her mouth with one hand, reaching for an unopened tub of ice cream with the other.
Selena’s jaw dropped. “Oh. My. God.”
Emma’s voice caught between laughter and shock. “She’s sleep-eating.”
Taylor stuffed a mouthful of cold lasagna, sauce dribbling down her chin. She chewed noisily, almost animalistic, then set the pan aside and reached for a loaf of bread.
Selena clutched Emma’s arm. “We can’t wake her up, right? That’s, like… the rule. You never wake a sleepwalker.”
Emma squinted. “Is that for walking or for inhaling three-day-old Chinese takeout at midnight?”
Taylor hummed softly, unaware, moving in a trance. She poured an entire half-gallon of milk into a mixing bowl, drank from it sloppily, then reached for a box of powdered doughnuts and crammed three in at once.
Selena winced. “She’s gonna hate herself in the morning.”
Emma leaned against the counter, watching with fascination. “Or maybe not. She seems… committed.”
The two friends whispered while Taylor carried on, each clink and crunch amplified in the cavernous kitchen. They couldn’t look away—the absurdity was magnetic.
Selena finally whispered, “We should film this. Nobody’s gonna believe us.”
Emma nodded, fumbling for her phone. She raised it, the camera catching Taylor mid-bite as she stuffed half a rotisserie chicken leg into her mouth. Emma’s shoulders shook with barely contained laughter.
“Shhh!” Selena nudged her, giggling too. “You’re gonna blow our cover.”
But Taylor wasn’t hearing a thing. She was too busy mixing potato chips into the leftover pasta like some mad scientist, then eating it straight from the serving spoon.
Selena’s voice softened. “This is… kinda intense, though. I mean, she’s just sleepwalking, right? She won’t even remember?”
Emma smirked. “Unless she notices the missing buffet in the morning.”
They watched as Taylor polished off the cake slices, then reached for the whipped cream can. She squirted directly into her mouth, eyes still shut, then sighed dreamily, turning in slow circles like she was dancing to music only she could hear.
Emma murmured, “This is like watching a Greek goddess descend into… a Taco Bell at 2 a.m.”
Selena bit her lip, conflicted between awe and worry. “She’s gonna gain so much weight if this keeps happening every night.”
As if on cue, Taylor moved toward the pantry, dragging out more snacks with an unstoppable hunger. Cookies, cereal, bags of candy. She devoured them rhythmically, trance-like, her silk gown stretching slightly at the waist.
Selena whispered again, “We can’t just let her keep doing this forever.”
Emma gave her a sidelong glance. “What, you wanna tie her to the bed?”
“No!” Selena hissed. “I just mean… maybe we should figure out why she’s doing it. Help her.”
Emma’s grin widened. “Or we can make popcorn and enjoy the show.”
Selena smacked her arm. “You’re evil.”
“And you’re telling me you’re not a little entertained?”
They both turned back to the spectacle: Taylor, graceful even in her sloppiness, eating like a starved animal yet somehow elegant in her trance. It was hypnotic. Every bite, every messy gulp, felt like watching a secret unravel—Taylor Swift, the untouchable pop icon, revealed in her most vulnerable, absurd state.
Finally, after nearly half an hour of raiding, Taylor staggered to the couch with armfuls of snacks. She collapsed, curled like a cat, and continued munching until her hands slowed, head tipping back, mouth smeared with chocolate. Within minutes, she was asleep for real, crumbs scattered across her lap.
Selena and Emma stood frozen.
“…So what do we do now?” Selena whispered.
Emma crossed her arms, considering. “Tomorrow, we act normal. See if she even notices.”
Selena frowned, uneasy. “And if she doesn’t?”
“Then we keep watching. Document it. Study it. Think of it as… science.”
Selena sighed, torn between concern and curiosity. “This is gonna get out of hand.”
Emma’s smirk sharpened. “That’s the fun part.”
The mansion’s silence returned, broken only by Taylor’s faint snores. Selena and Emma tiptoed back upstairs, but neither slept easy. They knew this was only the beginning—something strange, messy, and undeniably fascinating was unfolding in their friend’s midnight appetite.
Morning sunlight slanted across the kitchen’s destruction. Cereal flakes ground into the marble like confetti, ice cream containers melted into sticky puddles, chicken bones stacked like primitive art. Selena stood barefoot at the threshold, clutching a mug of coffee, staring at the wreckage.
Emma padded in behind her, yawning. “Wow. Looks like a crime scene.”
Selena pinched the bridge of her nose. “She’s gonna notice, Emma. There’s no way she doesn’t notice this.”
As if summoned, Taylor entered, radiant in a cream sweater and jeans, humming faintly to herself. She reached for the coffee pot, oblivious to the sticky wasteland around her.
“Morning,” she said brightly.
Selena and Emma traded horrified glances.
Taylor took a sip of coffee, then frowned slightly at the counter. “Hmm. I really need to tell the housekeeper to keep up with the fridge… everything’s, like, half-eaten.” She gave a little shrug, then padded off toward the studio room, humming again.
Emma mouthed at Selena: She doesn’t remember.
Selena’s eyes widened. “Okay. This is serious.”
That afternoon, the two of them sat cross-legged on Selena’s guest bed, a laptop between them, whispering like covert operatives.
Selena tapped the trackpad, pulling up diagrams of sleepwalking from a quick Google search. “See? People do all kinds of stuff without remembering. But eating like that? Every night? That’s gotta be bad.”
Emma stretched lazily, her mischievous grin never fading. “Bad for her waistline, maybe. Entertaining for us.”
Selena shot her a glare. “We’re not letting her… balloon out like some—” she caught herself, cheeks heating, “—some late-night raccoon scavenger.”
Emma laughed. “Oh, come on. Imagine the tour footage if she just kept growing and growing. Fans would go feral.”
Selena groaned. “Not helping.”
Emma tapped her chin theatrically. “So, solution: we gather intel. Trap her like a mythological beast. Cameras, alarms, bait.”
Selena blinked. “Bait?”
“Yeah. Like a trail of Doritos leading to a net.”
Selena buried her face in her hands. “You’ve lost your mind.”
But when night came, they did set traps. Not nets, but clever improvisations: a phone camera propped behind the fruit bowl, a string tied to the pantry door and connected to a bell in Selena’s room, a stack of pots balanced precariously near the fridge. Emma, thrilled, narrated like David Attenborough setting a nature documentary.
“And here,” she whispered into her phone mic, “we see the elusive Swift in her natural habitat. Will she emerge for the nocturnal feast?”
Selena smacked her shoulder. “Shut up!”
They lay in the dark guest room, listening, hearts pounding. Hours ticked by. Then—ding. The bell rattled faintly.
Selena sat bolt upright. “She’s on the move.”
Emma grinned wickedly. “Showtime.”
Downstairs, Taylor had returned to her moonlit performance. Tonight she raided with even more hunger, dragging half the cheesecake to the counter, digging with bare hands. She slathered peanut butter on cold pizza slices, stacked them high, and devoured them like sandwiches.
The pots clattered loudly as she brushed past. Selena and Emma, hiding behind the archway, froze. But Taylor didn’t stir—she just kept eating, unfazed, still lost in her trance.
Selena whispered, “This is… insane. She’s not even awake, but it’s like she knows what she wants.”
Emma whispered back, “Yeah, and what she wants is to demolish the USDA food pyramid.”
Taylor moved next to the bait Selena had planted: a Tupperware of leftover churros. She grabbed it immediately, tearing the lid open with surprising force. The hidden phone camera caught everything—her slack, dreamy face, the way her silk pajama top stretched across her middle as she bent, the absent-minded groans of satisfaction as sugar coated her lips.
Emma nearly doubled over laughing, muffling herself into Selena’s shoulder. Selena tried to stay serious, but her mouth twitched. The absurdity of it all—the world’s biggest pop star reduced to a zombie-like junk food devourer—was too much.
Taylor waddled slightly as she carried her haul to the couch, arms loaded with snacks. She collapsed, eating mechanically, her stomach rounding subtly against the fabric of her pajamas. Selena gasped. “Emma. Look. She’s… she’s already—”
Emma’s grin widened. “Filling out? Yeah. Our girl’s growing.”
“Don’t say it like that!” Selena hissed, though she couldn’t look away.
Taylor’s trance lasted an hour, punctuated by gulps, crunches, satisfied sighs. Finally she slumped, head tilting back, crumbs on her chest.
Selena whispered, “Okay. We’ve got proof. Tomorrow, we sit her down. Intervention.”
Emma smirked. “Or tomorrow, we set better bait.”
Morning came. Selena nervously cued up the phone video on the laptop, showing Emma’s giggling commentary layered over footage of Taylor annihilating churros.
Taylor squinted at the screen, then at them. “Wait. That’s… me?”
Selena leaned forward earnestly. “Taylor, this is what’s been happening every night. You’ve been sleep-eating. You don’t even remember it.”
Taylor frowned, stunned. “But I… I don’t…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at the footage: herself, robotic, devouring sweets with glazed-over eyes.
Emma crossed her arms, smug. “Told you. Midnight munch monster.”
Taylor buried her face in her hands. “This is humiliating.”
Selena put a hand on her knee. “It’s not your fault. Sleepwalking is a real thing. We just… need to figure out how to stop it before it gets worse.”
Taylor peeked up, horrified. “Has it already gotten worse?”
Emma coughed pointedly, eyes flicking to the faint stretch of Taylor’s sweater across her midsection. Taylor followed her gaze, paling.
“No. No, no, no.” She stood, tugging the hem of her sweater down defensively. “Okay, we fix this. Tonight, we lock the pantry. We—”
Selena hesitated. “That might just make you find another way. We need… control. Monitoring.”
Emma grinned. “A full stakeout. Every night. We’ll keep watch.”
Taylor groaned. “Great. My friends become babysitters.”
Selena smiled gently. “Not babysitters. Partners. We’ve got you.”
Taylor sighed, resigned. But in her chest, anxiety churned. That night’s footage had carved itself into her mind—the blank face, the insatiable hunger, the crumbs clinging to her. She couldn’t deny the evidence. And worse, part of her stomach, faintly bloated from days of midnight raids, throbbed with shame.
That night, the traps were doubled. Selena set cameras in every corner of the kitchen, Emma rigged up motion sensors with her phone, and Taylor went to bed vowing silently she’d fight it.
But hours later, like clockwork, she rose again. Her feet carried her down the stairs, eyes closed, arms reaching for the fridge.
The cameras whirred. The bells dinged. Selena and Emma watched from the darkened dining room, holding their breath.
Taylor didn’t hesitate. She tore through the locked pantry, ripping at the latch with surprising strength until it gave way. She went straight for the sweetest stash—cupcakes, cinnamon rolls, leftover pie. She stuffed her face, each bite sloppy and desperate, whipped cream smeared across her chin.
Selena whispered, “She broke the lock. Emma. She’s unstoppable.”
Emma grinned like a mad scientist. “Beautiful.”
Taylor’s nightgown stretched tighter now, a small curve forming where there hadn’t been one a week ago. She ate on autopilot, messy, relentless, leaving crumbs scattered like breadcrumbs for the two horrified voyeurs.
Selena whispered fiercely, “We have to do something—this isn’t just funny anymore, it’s dangerous.”
Emma’s smile faded slightly as she watched Taylor lick icing from her hands, still half-dreaming. “Yeah… but how do you stop a goddess in a trance?”
The question hung heavy in the air.
The third night began like the others—cameras ready, bells strung, pantry freshly stocked despite Selena’s protests. But by now, an uneasy rhythm had set in. Taylor would go to bed swearing it wouldn’t happen again. Selena would hover with concern, Emma would grin like a cat waiting for a show. And then, inevitably, the bells would jingle.
This time, Taylor’s entrance was faster, almost determined. She marched barefoot across the marble like a general on campaign, eyes closed but movements sharper, hungrier. She opened the fridge with a practiced yank, the light spilling across her silk nightgown.
Selena clutched Emma’s wrist. “Look. She’s… she’s stronger every time.”
Emma leaned close, whispering like a delighted sportscaster. “And hungrier.”
Taylor began with fruit, as if her subconscious knew to pretend at virtue. But she swallowed whole handfuls—grapes, strawberries, banana slices—before abandoning the charade and dragging out a tub of chocolate frosting. She dipped handfuls of cookies straight into it, shoving them between her lips. Her body swayed with each bite, trance-deep but almost joyous, as though the food itself was pulling her strings.
Selena winced. “She’s gonna make herself sick.”
Emma tilted her head. “Or legendary.”
The footage caught everything: frosting smeared at the corner of her mouth, her nightgown clinging damp with spilled milk, the faint curve of her belly pushing outward as she leaned over the counter. Already, the difference was visible. Days of midnight raids had softened her waist, puffed her cheeks. Nothing dramatic—yet—but enough that Selena noticed.
She whispered, almost mournful, “Emma… she’s changing.”
Emma’s grin faltered, her eyes flicking to Taylor’s form. “Yeah. She is.”
Taylor ripped open a pizza box, folding slices together and biting through, cheese stringing across her chin. She chewed with slow, satisfied moans. Selena turned away, pressing her forehead to her hands.
“I can’t watch this anymore. We have to stop her.”
Emma caught her shoulder. “Selena. Look at her. She’s not unhappy. She’s… glowing.”
“Glowing? She’s asleep!”
Emma’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly. This is her subconscious. Pure. Unfiltered. No PR team, no calorie counting. Just desire.”
Selena stared, speechless.
Taylor was now mixing cereal into ice cream, spooning it with blissful hums. A ribbon of whipped cream traced across her lips. She smeared it away lazily, then dove back in. The gown stretched visibly around her middle, fabric pulling taut each time she bent.
Selena whispered, “What if it doesn’t stop? What if she keeps… growing? You think she can still perform like this?”
Emma’s smirk sharpened. “Maybe that’s the point. Reinvent herself. A whole new era—Midnight Snacks.”
Selena slapped her arm, furious. “This isn’t funny anymore!”
The clash of their whispers filled the darkened dining room as Taylor devoured in oblivion.
Morning brought consequences.
Taylor sat at the long breakfast table, scrolling her phone. She wore leggings and a loose tee, her hair perfect but her face puffy, a faint bloat softening her jawline. The shirt clung where it shouldn’t—at her waist, the curve of her stomach pressing lightly against the fabric.
She noticed Selena staring and tugged the shirt down self-consciously. “What?”
Selena swallowed. “Taylor… do you feel different?”
Taylor sighed, setting the phone aside. “I feel tired. Bloated. Like I ran a marathon in my sleep.” She rubbed her stomach with a wince. “And my jeans don’t fit.”
Emma, sipping coffee with infuriating calm, said, “Well, maybe it’s time to embrace it. You can’t fight what happens when you’re asleep.”
Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “So I should just let myself… balloon up like some junk food piñata?”
Emma shrugged. “Better than fighting a war with your own subconscious.”
Selena cut in sharply. “No. We find a solution. Therapy. A doctor. Something.”
Taylor leaned back, conflicted. “I don’t know… part of me… it feels good. Like I’m not in control, but also… free.”
That admission silenced the room. Selena bit her lip, Emma smiled knowingly.
The fourth night was worse.
Taylor didn’t just raid the fridge—she ransacked it. Half a lasagna vanished in minutes. She spread Nutella across slices of pie, stacked them into a grotesque sandwich, ate until chocolate dripped down her wrists.
Selena filmed with shaking hands. “Emma, do you see how… how much she’s eating? This isn’t sustainable.”
Emma whispered back, “It’s art.”
Taylor slumped into a chair with an entire casserole dish balanced on her lap. She dug in with both hands, trance unbroken. Her nightgown clung now, belly pressing forward, thighs soft where the fabric bunched.
Selena’s chest ached watching it. “She won’t stop until she can’t move.”
Emma’s grin was thin, fascinated. “And maybe that’s the truth she’s chasing.”
By morning, the evidence was undeniable.
Taylor shuffled into the living room in sweatpants, hair messy, sweater loose but unable to hide the new softness beneath. She dropped onto the couch with a heavy sigh, pressing her hands to her stomach.
“I saw the footage,” she admitted, voice low. “I… don’t even recognize myself.”
Selena sat beside her, earnest. “Then we stop it. Tonight we lock everything down. No food in the house.”
Taylor hesitated, eyes flicking to Emma, who leaned in the doorway smirking.
“And what if I… don’t want to stop?” Taylor whispered.
Selena gasped. “Taylor…”
Emma stepped forward, triumphant. “Finally. You’re listening to yourself.”
Selena snapped, “Don’t encourage this!”
Emma shot back, “Why not? She’s happier like this! Look at her—she’s exhausted from fighting it. Let her indulge!”
Taylor buried her face in her hands, torn between their voices. Her stomach gurgled audibly, betraying her. She laughed bitterly. “Listen to me. I sound like… like some hungry monster.”
Emma crouched, her tone softening. “No. You sound human.”
Selena shook her head furiously. “You sound trapped. And we’re gonna free you.”
Taylor sat frozen, the weight of both arguments pressing down harder than the fullness in her belly.
That night, the mansion hummed with tension. Selena had hidden half the snacks, locked the pantry, emptied the fridge. Emma had smuggled a stash into the living room “just in case.”
When midnight came, Taylor rose as always, eyes closed, steps heavy. She found the fridge barren, the pantry locked. She tugged, growled softly in her sleep. Selena’s heart raced—was this it? The cure?
But Taylor turned, sniffed faintly, and found Emma’s stash: boxes of cookies, chips, a cheesecake. She fell to her knees before it, ripping it open, eating with desperate hunger.
Selena gasped, horrified. “Emma! What did you—”
Emma only whispered, eyes wide with awe, “She chose.”
Taylor devoured on the floor, cheesecake smeared across her chin, crumbs raining down her nightgown. Her belly swelled visibly as she ate and ate, unstoppable.
Selena could barely breathe. “We’re losing her.”
Emma’s grin glowed. “No. She’s finding herself.”
And in the dark kitchen, Taylor continued—eyes shut, mouth full, every bite another step deeper into the spiral.
The mansion trembled with sound. Selena knew the routine by now—the midnight creak, the fridge door opening—but tonight it was louder. Violent. A crash reverberated through the halls, rattling picture frames.
Selena bolted upright in bed. “Oh no. Oh no.”
Emma was already in the doorway, grinning like a thief caught in the act. “You hear that? She’s in rare form tonight.”
Selena shoved past her, heart pounding. They tore down the hallway into the kitchen—and froze.
Taylor was already deep in her trance, but tonight there was no grace, no dainty gliding between counters. She was a storm. The fridge door hung open, shelves stripped bare. Milk pooled across the tiles. Cabinets banged as she ripped them apart, tossing aside boxes, jars, plates. Her silk nightgown clung to her, stretched taut at the belly, smeared with frosting from some demolished cake.
Selena gasped. “Taylor!”
Taylor didn’t stir. She tore open a bag of bagels with her teeth, stuffing them in two at a time. Her eyes fluttered, dreamy, as though she was somewhere far away.
Emma leaned against the wall, whispering in awe, “It’s beautiful.”
Selena snapped, “It’s horrifying! Look at her! She’s destroying herself!”
But Taylor was already moving to the pantry. Selena had relocked it earlier, but the latch gave way under Taylor’s fumbling hands. She hauled out a crate of soda cans, cracked three open at once, and chugged them, burping thunderously before tossing the empties across the floor.
Selena clutched her head. “We have to stop her. This is the breaking point.”
Emma’s smirk didn’t fade. “Why stop her when she’s breaking free?”
Taylor stumbled, arms full of snacks—chips, candy, crackers—spilling them across the floor before collapsing into the mess like a child in a ball pit. She rolled onto her back, tearing open packets one by one, tossing them into her mouth. Her stomach bulged under the gown, soft and heavy against her thighs, rising and falling with each greedy swallow.
Selena rushed forward, grabbing her wrist. “Taylor! Wake up! Please!”
But Taylor yanked free with surprising strength, still chewing, eyes closed. She pushed Selena away as if swatting a fly, and returned to her feast.
Emma pulled Selena back. “Don’t. You’ll only hurt her—or yourself.”
Selena’s voice cracked. “You call this helping? You’re just letting her—”
“—be who she is,” Emma finished firmly. “She’s wanted this. You heard her admit it. She doesn’t want to fight anymore.”
Selena stared at her, trembling. “And you just… want to watch her eat herself into oblivion?”
Emma’s grin softened, almost reverent. “I want to watch her live.”
The binge escalated.
Taylor raided with unstoppable force, emptying every drawer, every fridge shelf, even the freezer—gnawing on frozen waffles, crunching through half-thawed cookie dough. She dragged a jar of peanut butter onto the floor, dipped entire chocolate bars into it, licked her fingers with sticky moans.
Selena whispered, horrified, “She’s eating everything in the house.”
Emma’s eyes gleamed. “Then the house isn’t enough.”
As if proving her point, Taylor staggered toward the dining room. She yanked the cloth from the table, sending plates crashing. She clambered up onto the table, knocking over a vase, and began tearing through the fruit bowl, the bread basket, anything in reach.
Selena shouted, “Taylor, stop! Please!”
But Taylor only swayed, trance-deep, crumbs showering her nightgown. She picked up the vase itself, peered inside as if expecting food, and set it down with a pout before grabbing the decorative centerpiece of faux fruit and trying to bite into it.
Selena nearly cried. “She doesn’t even know what she’s eating anymore!”
Emma covered her mouth to muffle laughter. “This is… transcendent.”
Taylor moved again, climbing down heavily, her breath ragged, sweat beading at her temples. She lumbered toward the living room, dragging a tray of cupcakes she’d scooped from the fridge. She collapsed onto the couch, frosting smeared across her chest, nightgown riding up to reveal the pale curve of her belly. She tore through the cupcakes one by one, moaning softly, eyes closed all the while.
Selena whispered, voice shaking, “She’s… she’s going to pass out.”
Emma leaned in, murmuring, “She’s in ecstasy.”
Selena snapped.
She rushed forward, grabbing the tray and yanking it away. “That’s enough!”
Taylor groaned in protest, reaching blindly. Her lips worked as if tasting phantom sugar. Selena stood her ground, trembling.
“Taylor, listen to me. You’re hurting yourself. This isn’t freedom, it’s destruction.”
Emma stepped in, furious. “Give it back to her!”
“No!” Selena cried. “Not until she wakes up and sees what she’s doing!”
Taylor, still half-asleep, began to whimper softly, clutching at her stomach as if it ached. She curled on the couch, smeared in frosting, crumbs stuck to her skin.
Selena’s anger broke into tears. She knelt, stroking Taylor’s hair. “Please. Please wake up. I can’t watch you like this anymore.”
Emma’s jaw clenched, torn between her awe and her friend’s pain. She looked at Taylor, at Selena, at the wreckage of the house—the shattered dishes, the food-strewn floor, the swollen curve of Taylor’s midsection rising and falling with shallow breaths.
For the first time, Emma’s grin faltered.
Selena whispered, desperate, “Help me. Don’t you see she can’t take this much longer?”
Emma swallowed hard, her bravado cracking. She glanced at Taylor again—so powerful, yet so helpless, trapped in her own dream of endless hunger.
Taylor groaned, rolling onto her side, clutching her stomach. “Mmm… more…”
Selena bit her lip, trembling. “Emma. Please.”
And Emma finally exhaled, her voice quiet. “…What do we do?”
They moved quickly. Selena fetched water, Emma pulled a blanket. Together, they wiped crumbs and frosting from Taylor’s skin, trying to make her comfortable. She twitched, restless, murmuring nonsense as if still trapped in her dream-feast.
Selena pressed the glass of water to her lips. “Just a little, Tay. Please.”
Taylor sipped unconsciously, some spilling down her chin.
Emma tucked the blanket around her, the first genuine worry showing on her face. “She ate enough for three people tonight.”
Selena whispered back, “For ten.”
The mansion lay in ruins: cabinets bare, fridge empty, plates shattered across tile. The air smelled of sugar and grease, the carpet stained with soda. And in the center of it all, Taylor—messy, bloated, exhausted—slept on the couch, twitching softly as if still reaching for more.
Selena held her hand, squeezing tight. “Tomorrow, we fix this. We have to.”
Emma nodded faintly, no clever remark left. Just quiet, uneasy agreement.
And in the silence, Taylor sighed, lips curving in the faintest smile, crumbs still clinging to her cheek.
The mansion was silent again. Sunlight crept through sheer curtains, laying soft beams across the ruins of last night’s chaos. Crumbs, wrappers, stains—the detritus of a hurricane with Taylor Swift at its eye.
Taylor groaned awake on the couch, blinking into the brightness. Her head throbbed. Her stomach ached. Her silk nightgown clung damp with frosting, stretched taut across her middle. She tried to sit up, but the heaviness of her own body pressed her back down.
She gasped. “What… what happened?”
Selena stepped forward from the kitchen doorway, dark circles under her eyes, clutching a mug of coffee like a lifeline. “You happened.”
Emma appeared behind her, arms folded, her usual grin muted but still lingering faintly at the edges.
Taylor looked around—the wreckage, the stains, the empty fridge yawning open. Horror flickered across her face. “I… I did all this?”
Selena nodded grimly. “Every crumb. Every crash. You’ve been doing it for nights, but last night…” Her voice cracked. “Last night, you nearly destroyed yourself.”
Taylor buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God. No. No, no, no.” She pulled her nightgown tighter, but the gesture only emphasized the soft swell of her belly pressing outward. “I can feel it. I… I’m heavier.”
Emma’s eyes flicked over her, unable to deny it. The sharp angles of Taylor’s frame had blurred. Her waist softened, her cheeks rounder, her thighs fuller where the nightgown clung.
Selena sat beside her, placing a hand on her arm. “Taylor, you need help. Real help. Doctors, therapists. We can’t let this keep happening.”
Taylor’s voice was small. “I thought… I thought I could control it.”
Emma crouched in front of her, searching her face. “Maybe control isn’t the answer. Maybe you’re not supposed to fight it.”
Selena snapped, “Emma—don’t start.”
Emma’s gaze didn’t waver from Taylor. “You said it yourself. Part of you liked it. The freedom. No calorie counting. No rules. Just… desire.”
Taylor swallowed hard, trembling. “But look at me.” She pinched the fabric at her waist, pulling it tight against the new softness. “The world doesn’t want this. They want me perfect. Skinny. Untouchable.”
Selena squeezed her hand. “The world wants you alive, Taylor. Healthy. Not sleepwalking into a slow-motion collapse.”
Emma’s voice softened. “Or maybe the world’s ready for a new you. A you who doesn’t care. Who indulges. Who shows them desire isn’t shameful.”
The room pulsed with silence, two voices pulling Taylor in opposite directions. She felt the ache in her stomach, the lingering sweetness on her tongue, the heaviness in her limbs. Shame coiled in her gut—but so did a strange, guilty thrill.
She whispered, “What if I don’t want to stop?”
Selena’s breath caught. “Taylor—”
Taylor turned to her, eyes shimmering. “All my life, I’ve been controlled. Every bite, every outfit, every photo. Always under the microscope. Always afraid of letting go. And now, when I sleep, I finally do. And you want to take that from me?”
Selena’s eyes filled with tears. “I want to save you.”
Taylor’s chest rose and fell, the nightgown pulling taut over her swollen middle. She laughed bitterly. “Save me from myself?”
Emma reached up, brushing crumbs from her cheek. “Or set you free.”
Hours later, the three of them sat around the kitchen table. The counters had been half-cleaned, but the fridge was still bare, the air thick with the lingering scent of sugar and grease.
Selena opened her laptop, pulling up the footage from the last week. Clip after clip of Taylor sleep-eating played: lasagna, cake, soda, pizza. Each one more frantic, more indulgent.
Taylor watched, pale and transfixed. She saw her face smeared in chocolate, her gown straining, her body slumping heavy with fullness. She heard the moans of satisfaction, the growls, the laughter Emma had tried to stifle.
She closed the laptop with a snap. “Enough.”
Selena leaned forward. “Then say it. Say you’ll get help.”
Taylor’s lips trembled. She looked from Selena’s earnest eyes to Emma’s glimmering ones. Then she stood, slow and deliberate, her belly tugging at the fabric of her gown.
“No,” she said.
Selena’s voice cracked. “Taylor—”
“I’m done hiding,” Taylor said firmly. “Done starving. Done pretending I’m made of porcelain. If my body wants this… then I’ll give it what it wants.”
Emma’s smile returned, wide and bright. “That’s my girl.”
Selena shot up, furious. “Emma! You’re encouraging her to self-destruct!”
Taylor turned on her, voice sharp. “No. You’re encouraging me to live in fear. I’m not afraid anymore.”
Selena’s face crumpled. “You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t empowerment, it’s… it’s addiction.”
Taylor took Selena’s hands gently. “Maybe. But it’s mine. For once, it’s mine. Not a manager’s. Not a fan’s. Not the media’s. Mine.”
Selena’s tears spilled. “And if it kills you?”
Taylor smiled sadly. “Then at least it’s my choice.”
That night, there were no traps. No cameras. No locks.
Taylor walked to the kitchen with her eyes open this time, fully awake. Selena followed, pleading, but Taylor held up a hand.
“Don’t stop me,” she said quietly.
Emma followed too, her expression alight with awe.
Taylor opened the fridge. Empty. She turned to the pantry. Barren. Selena had cleared it, desperate to save her.
But Emma stepped forward, revealing the stash she’d hidden: cakes, chips, cartons of ice cream. Taylor’s eyes softened in gratitude.
Selena cried out, “Emma, no!”
Taylor took the cake in her hands, staring at it. She looked at Selena, then at Emma.
“This is who I am now,” she whispered.
And she ate.
Not in a trance. Not sleepwalking. Awake. Aware. Every bite deliberate. Frosting smeared her lips, crumbs tumbled down her gown, her belly swelled further as she ate and ate. Selena sobbed, clutching the counter, unable to look but unable to leave.
Emma watched in silence, reverent, like witnessing a holy rite.
When Taylor finally slumped into a chair, panting, the empty cake tray on the counter, she looked at both of them.
“I choose this,” she said firmly.
Selena covered her mouth, shaking with grief. Emma beamed, pride shimmering in her eyes.
And Taylor, sticky and bloated, smiled through it all—messy, imperfect, unashamed.
The mansion would never be the same. The fridge would never stay full. The world would notice soon enough. But for Taylor Swift, for the first time in her life, it didn’t matter.
She was free.