Easton Shaw is going to be famous. I’ve watched him play in smoky bars, sing to the few people who’d stop to listen, and dream bigger than anyone I’ve ever met. And now… it’s happening!! He got a record deal. Not just some small-time contract or a measly “you’ve got talent” meeting. But a real, tangible, career-changing deal. The kind that is going to change our lives.
Countless nights, I’ve watched as his hands shake slightly before a songstarts, but they don’t falter as soon as that first note hits. He pours everything he has into his music when he’s on stage. I’ve seen him chase this dream relentlessly, and now the world is catching up to him. Proud doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel about what he’s accomplished. I’m in awe and so excited for him. Forus.
Even with all the excitement, nothing has changed between us. He’s still the same Easton I’ve loved from the very beginning. That same crooked smile is always plastered across his face. Even with the spotlight on him, he still has a magical way of making me feel like the only person in the room.
We still eat tacos on the curb on Thursday nights and share late-night whispers in our tiny apartment, but things are changing fast. There are so many studio sessions, meetings, and a schedule that pulls him in directions I can’t always follow. Yet, even with it all, he looks at me the same way he always has—like I’m home. I’m not just on this journey with him. I’m the anchor that keeps him rooted throughout all the chaos.
I don’t know exactly what the future will hold for us. Fame is unpredictable, messy, and sometimes lonely. But I trust him, and more importantly, I trust us.
So here I am, holding onto him and our life together, watching the person I love step into the spotlight he’s always deserved. And I get the honor of being by his side when it happens.
July 30th
Dear Surreal,
When does this start to feel normal and no longer weird? I hear Easton’s song about us on the radio at least once an hour these days, and each time I’m transported back to that little bar on Demonbreun Street and the night he told me he loved me. It’s not just Easton singing about our love, but the whole world.
August 13th
Dear Space,
We own a home… In BRENTWOOD!!!
I still can’t believe I’m writing that. My tiny apartment (the one that felt so impossibly big when I first moved here) could probably fit inside the kitchen of our new place. High ceilings, sprawling rooms, and a backyard that catches the afternoon sun just right… It’s almost absurd how much room there is. And yet, being in it with Easton, it somehow feels like home.
Honestly, I’m not quite sure what we need it for. In a couple of months, we leave for his world tour. We’ll be chasing airports, stages, hotel rooms, and city lights that blur into one long, exhausting, exhilarating stretch of music and travel. But still… we have this. A place that’sours. A place to come back to when the noise fades and the music stops, even if just for a night or two.
I keep walking through the rooms, imagining future moments that will happen here: late-night talks in the living room, breakfast together in the sunlit kitchen, maybe even a dog or two wandering around someday. It’s strange, this feeling of permanence when ourlives are about to explode into something so unpredictable.
Sometimes, I look at Easton, standing in the doorway, guitar case in hand, his smile like he’s thinking the same thing I am, and I feel a surge of gratitude so big it nearly knocks me off my feet. We’ve built something bigger than a home. Bigger than a ring, a courthouse wedding, and late-night tacos. We’ve built a life that can stretch and change and grow with us, even when the world demands we move at a hundred miles an hour.
And somehow, Brentwood feels like home. But that’s probably because we’re together. BecauseEastonis myhome…
November 7th
Dear Exhaustion,
We’ve been on tour for months.
It’s exhausting—more than I ever imagined it could be. A new city every other night, endless soundchecks, meet-and-greets,interviews, and the constant grind of travel. I sometimes forget what day it is, or where we’re sleeping tonight. Easton is pulled in a thousand directions at once, juggling schedules, music, and everything in between. And yet, somehow, through it all, one thing remains undeniable: I am the center of his universe.
He shows up for me every day. Sometimes, it’s in the grand gestures—pulling me on stage to sing our songto me, insisting I meet people who matter, stealing a quiet moment backstage so we can be alone for just a heartbeat. And sometimes it’s in the smallest ways—his hand brushing mine in the car, leaving a Post-it Note on the hotel room mirror, or making sure I have my favorite snack after a long flight. His love seems effortless and natural.
And then there’s the night. Or the early hours of the morning, when the chaos finally fades and the rooms grow quiet. The moments when it’s just us curling into bed together, feeling each other’s warmth, and melting into each other. His arms wrapped around me, and our limbs tangling together becomes a kindof sanctuary, a reminder that, no matter how hectic life gets, this—us—is steady. The exhaustion fades for a little while, replaced by the comfort of his firm touch, the familiarity of his heartbeat, and the way he whispers his undying devotion into my ear.
Tour life is messy. Tour life is chaotic. But experiencing this journey with him makes it all worth it. Because, no matter where we go, what stage he’s on, or how many cities blur together in a week, I know that at the end of it all, I gethim. And he getsme.
The headlights of my car slice through the dark, carving out a tunnel I’m barely managing to drive through. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter than they should as the dashboard lights blur, bleeding together like wet paint. The empty road stretched before me grows more narrow with every mile that passes. Whiskey sloshes, heavy and warm in my gut, dragging my muscles and thoughts to a speed half a second slower than they should be.
“What am I even doing?” I slur to myself. I shouldn’t be here. I know that. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me—pull over, stop, don’t fucking do this—but I’m so close to home. I just need to get into my bed to sleep this off.
I cling to the low and steady hum of the engine as the tires hiss against the asphalt. Dust churns up along the passenger side as I drift onto the shoulder. The crunch of gravel is loud and startling in the silence, vibrating through the floorboard and into my bones as my pulse roars in my ears.
I blink and then shut my eyes for a second to steady myself. When I open them, the gate of my house is nearer than I expect. Too close.Way too close.“Oh, fuck!” I wrench the wheel to the left, my drunk reflexes slow and sloppy as I grossly overcorrect. The tires spin uselessly on the loose gravel, and the screech of metal-on-metal tears through the night as I crash into the iron bars with a thump that steals the air from my lungs and rattles my teeth.
The engine grumbles as I sit there frozen, my hands still locked around the wheel and my heart hammering like it’s trying to punch its way out of my ribcage. I don’t get out. I don’t do anything but stare at the wreckage before me. The wreckage I know could have had much more dire consequences.
Headlights flare behind me, bright and blinding as they flood the cabin of my SUV. I squint, disoriented, my head already throbbing. “Easton!” My name detonates through the night, punctuated with the slamming of a car door. I flinch at the furious tone enough that my shoulders jerk. Squinting into the rearview mirror, I find Mason in front of his truck, framed by its headlights. My brake lights glow across his face, making the anger on his face appear unmistakably sharper. His jaw is clenched, and his hands ball into fists as he stalks toward me. “Jesus Christ, Easton. What the fuck are you doing?”
