And when he opened the box… I think I forgot how to breathe for a second. The ring is simple, not flashy, but it caught the light in the way I imagine he catches mine every day… effortlessly, naturally, as if it was always meant to be. And then he asked the question—those four words that somehow feel like a lifetime of hope wrapped up into one single moment—I could barely speak. Not because I didn’t know the answer, but because the answer was bigger than any words could hold.
My answer came out as a jumble of gigglesand tears. But the way he smiled, like the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders, he knew. It was like he’d been waiting all six months we’ve been together to hear me say it.
We spent the rest of the night holding each other, talking in quiet whispers, and imagining a future I never thought I’d have. A future, I can’t imagine living without now. We made plans and shared our dreams for the life we could build together. Talks of a home and someday a family made this little apartment feel even smaller because it holds so much love and hope.
I never thought I’d be the kind of person who could love this completely, who could let someone in so fully and trust that love in return. Yet, here I am so completely, irreversibly, undeniably in love that my heart feels too full to contain itself.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know when we’ll set a date, or how many late-night runs to the taco truck that brought us here we’ll share before the wedding. But I do know that whatever chaos, mistakes, or imperfectmoments life throws at us, we’ll face them together. Because this—this love, this bond, this life we’ve started building—is worth every risk, every fear, every sleepless night, and every heart-stopping moment leadingup to it.
October 16th
Dear Mrs. Easton Shaw,
THAT’S ME! I’m Mrs. Easton Shaw!
I still can’t believe it. Somehow, the words feel both impossibly big and perfectly natural at the same time. We couldn’t wait. The idea of putting this love on pause, of waiting for a “right time” or a “perfect day,” felt absurd. So… we didn’t.
We went to the courthouse. Since neither of us has families to invite or share this with, we shared it with each other and his bandmates, who served as our witnesses, cheering quietly from the sidelines. Easton calls them family, so I guess they’re my family now. The ceremony was quick and simple. We exchanged rings, vows were whispered between laughter and nervous smiles, and the judge said the words that made us official. And in that tiny room, on a regular Wednesday, my heart felt like it could burst.
I’ve never experienced anything so simultaneously ordinary and extraordinary. Holding his hand and seeing him look at me with thatsame steady mix of tenderness and certainty he always has, it was like stepping into a life I didn’t know I was waiting for but always needed. There wasn’t music or flowers or any of the theatrics you see in movies. But there was magic and love, making it perfect in a way no grand wedding ever could have.
Afterward, we walked out together, our rings shining and fingers intertwined. We joked, teased, and made promises only we could understand. And though the city around us moved on, we paused for a moment in that tiny reality of ours, feeling entirely, unshakably complete.
I’m MRS. EASTON SHAW. It’s surreal to write it down, to say it aloud. But it’s real and sweeter than any future I could have dreamed.
Rosie Callahan Shaw
The house smells like Rosie. Or more correctly, it smells like me trying too hard to forget her. Whiskey, sweat, and the faint aroma of the perfume I sprayed on her pillow last night. Her sweet floral scent no longer clings to the curtains or fibers of the couch, and as it dissipates, it’s like she never existed here. Like we weren’t building a life full of love and hope in this home.
My boots drag across the hardwood floor as I stumble toward the kitchen, the heel of one catching on a rug Rosie insisted on buying from some tiny roadside market because the colors reminded her of the flannel shirt I wore on our first date.Fuck, that was an ugly-ass shirt.I nearly fall off balance when I kick at the wrinkle I made, and have to grab for the wall to catch myself. My fingers leave marks where they’re still sticky from the bottle I just finished while sitting beside the fire pit on the back porch.
After grabbing another from the cabinet, I unscrew the lid and pour the amber liquid straight into my mouth. It’s warm, burning a fire down my throat, slicing through thegrief. It lasts only seconds—three, maybe four—but I live for the heat instead of the heartbreak. It fades quickly. It always does. But eventually, it’ll numb what I can’t survive.
Staggering through the house, I step over Rosie’s journal as I make my way into the living room. It lies open, the pages folded and bent, on the floor near the coffee table, where I probably threw it in a fit of rage. I accidentally kick the table when I flop onto the couch, and sheet music floats onto the floor like falling leaves. The half-written songs and chord progressions meant something once. Now, the only thing I want to do with them is crumple them into a ball and toss each of them into the trash.
I take another swig from the bottle and am immediately reminded why I don’t sit here anymore when my eyes catch the photo on the wall. Whiskey spills from my lips when I quickly tear the bottle from them.God, she was beautiful…Rosie stares back at me from our wedding day, eyes shimmering and smiling mid-laugh. The sunlight in the photo catches her hair as she stands on the courthouse steps, turning it a dark caramel around her face.
It’s the most perfect reminder of everything I lost.Everything we lost. I want to tear it from the wall, smash it on the floor, and scream as I crush the glass under the heel of my boot. But I can’t. My whole world is inside that frame. If I destroy this photo, then she’s gone in another way, too. And I don’t think I can survive losing her again.
After pushing from the couch, I round the coffee table and trace my hand over her face through the glass. “Fuck, dreamer… I miss you.” My fingers tighten around the bottle as I lift it to my lips and take another long, generous swig to fill the void. The emptiness that comes from loving someone you can’t have back is unbearable. I miss her so completely; it feels like my heart has been hollowed out, beating from sheer habit instead of purpose.
With the bottle dangling from my hand, I stumble toward my music room. It used to be the place I could go when the silence got too loud or my emotions were so intense that I struggled to find the words to convey them. Now, it’s just one more room in this big, empty house. I grab my guitar from the stand it rests on by the door, cross the room, and drop into the oversized chair in the corner. Rosie used to curl up here with a blanket late at night as I hummed nonsensical melodies, trying to turn them into songs.
I run my fingers over the strings and strum. The chord comes out sour and jagged. My hands feel disconnected, like they aren’t really mine anymore, as the strings buzz under my fingertips. I used to be able to play blindfolded, pulling music out of silence for a living. Now, everything sounds like loss. Frustration spikes, sharp and sudden, like it does far too often.
“Damn it, Rosie,” I snarl, pitching the guitar across the room before I can stop myself. It slams into the wall with a crack that vibrates through my bones. The ricochet of splinters flies back at me, a shard clipping my knuckles. It only fuels my anger, and my hands curl into fists as violence simmers under my skin. I slam my already bloodied knuckles through the drywall, further splitting the skin. Pain blooms across my hand, and for a second, it’s a life preserver to keep me from drowning. But it’s not enough.It’s never enough.Grief immediately swallows me whole, pressing in on me so heavily that even air begins to feel like a memory.
My legs falter, and I knock the open bottle of Buffalo Trace from the table. It falls to the floor, the remnants spilling free and pooling around my boots. “Fuck!” I swing my foot at the bottle, and my boot skids on the spilled whiskey. I lose my balance and slam backward against the wall. It sways behind me, and I collapse to the hardwood with a dull thud as the bottle rolls lazily across the room before coming to a stop.
Sitting in a sticky pool of whiskey, I curl into myself, my arms wrapped around my knees. I sob until my ribs ache, rocking back and forth like the motion will shake the grief free from my bones, wishing the pain would finally stop. Wishing the world would stop. WishingIcould stop. I’ve tried, but I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to live without her or how to breathe in a world where Rosie doesn’t exist.
Minutes blur past, or maybe hours, and I cry until I have nothing left, leaving my eyes heavy. I don’t fight it. I let sleep take me, because my dreams are the only place I still have my dreamer.
June 4th
Dear Future,
I was right.
