And then I met you... And somehow, without trying to, without saying a single word about it, you gave me a family. Even if it’s just us and your bandmates, even if it’s unconventional and messy, it’s real. It’s steady. It’s permanent. You make me feel like I belong—not just a place to live, but somewhere in the world. In your heart.
You’ve given me a life I never could have dreamed of. A home that’s ours, with walls I get to decorate, rooms that hold our laughter and late-night talks. Vacations to places I never thought I’d see, experiences that make me feel like we’re living in a world too beautiful to believe. Clothes, cars, and little luxuries I didn’t dare imagine for myself. And yes, they’re all really nice. But it’s not the house, or the vacations, or the things. It’s thelove. It’s the certainty. It’sknowing that, no matter what the world throws at us, we have this. We have each other. And I’ve never had anything like that before.
It’s the way you look at me, like I’m the only person who matters. It’s the way your hand finds mine, even in a crowd. It’s the way you listen, really listen, when I talk, when I’m nervous, and when I’m dreaming out loud. It’s how you show up, every day, in ways huge and tiny, reminding me I’m not just part of your life—I’mcentralto it. And that certainty, that unwavering devotion, has changed me. I feel safe in ways I never thought I could. I feel worthy in ways I never thought I’d be. I feel…whole.
I love our life together. I love the chaos of tour, the sleepless nights, the cities whose names I can’t keep track of. I love curling up in our Brentwood home on days we actually get to breathe, making coffee in the kitchen, laughing at stupid jokes, and watching reruns we’ve seen a hundred times but somehow can’t stop viewing again. I love the spontaneity, the adventures, and the music thatruns through every corner of our lives. I love the quiet moments almost as much as the grand ones… the whispered words in bed, the soft touches as we fall asleep, and even the way you hum while you make breakfast.
You’ve given me stability and chaos, excitement and peace, love and devotion. You’ve given me a life where I feel like I belong, where I feel seen, where I feel loved for every part of me. And I can’t imagine a day without it. I don’t want to imagine a day without it. I don’t just love you—I love the life we’ve built, the future we’re creating, the tiny universe we’ve made together that exists just forus.
So, yes, I say “I love you” all the time. But after five years together, I need you to know those three words don’t nearly encompass what my heart feels for you.
I love you in ways I’ve never loved anyone.
I love you for who you are, for who we are together, for the family you’ve given me, for the certainty you’ve created, and for the life we’re living. I love you for the way you’vetransformed the girl, who once thought love was fleeting, into a woman who knows it can be steady, true, and unshakable.
I love us, Easton. And I always will.
The house is far too quiet this late at night.Actually, every night.It’s not peaceful or calm, it’s just… empty. The oppressive kind that presses in until you start hearing things that aren’t there, phantom laughter, the pad of delicate feet, or Rosie’s voice calling my name from another room.
I don’t bother turning on the lights as I walk. I don’t need them to see what I already know is missing.Rosie.I move through the rooms that used to feel like home, with my thoughts rattling far too loud around my skull.
Grief has been following me through the dark, stealing my breath and slowly hollowing me out. Some days, it’s quiet, a dull emptiness. Others, it’s so loud that it’s deafening. It crashes through my chest without warning, stealing the air from my lungs and forcing me to my knees. But it doesn’t matter whether it’s quiet or loud, because it’s always there.
It eats away at you, one swallow at a time, until you’re empty. Slow and patient. It eats away at you until you don’t recognize the man staring back in the mirror. It gnaws atyou until you’re scraped thin, bone-tired, and left with nothing. It doesn’t stop until you hit the bottom.Rock fucking bottom.
After reaching the bedroom, I flip on a light and gulp hard at the tightness in my throat. No matter how many times I see the bed we used to share, it doesn’t get any easier. I sit on the edge for a long time, simply staring at her pillow. Brushing my fingers over it, I imagine her smiling and telling me that everything will be okay. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hoping with every ounce of my being that she’s right.
Everyone keeps saying this gets easier. Time heals. Grief softens. I’ll adjust. But they’re wrong. I don’t miss her less with each day that passes. I only miss her more.
I stand up, cross the room to the closet, and slide open two of the dresser drawers. Rosie’s clothes are folded with meticulous care that I never understood and used to make fun of her for.I rifle through the contents, being careful not to muss the neatly folded jeans or perfectly tucked sleeves.It wouldn’t be the same without her faux outrage anyway.
I finally find what I’m looking for, the oversized sweater she wore around the house too often.
The one with stretched cuffs and a small crimson stain on the chest.A salsa mishap from a drunken visit to that god-forsaken taco truck.It unfolds as I lift the fabric to my face and breathe it in, inhaling what little of her scent still lingers in the threads.
I refold it carefully—not nearly as perfectly as Rosie—and carefully place it into the duffel bag I beganpacking this afternoon. It looks wrong, sitting unzipped at my feet, like I’m preparing for a trip and leaving her behind. The thought twists in my gut.I’m not leaving her…I’m just leaving this mausoleum to give myself a moment of reprieve from the barrage of memories it holds.
With the bag in my hand, I head back into the bedroom and spot her journal on the nightstand. I stare at it, debating whether I should leave it behind. But I can’t. Every page is a piece of her mind, a sprawling map of her heart. I flip it open and thumb through it. My gaze flits over her looped letters as I read snippets that I have already committed to memory.
I love us, Easton. And I always will.
Fuck… I love you, too, dreamer.
I close the journal before tears have a chance to blur my vision. I can’t read the parts where she talks about our future together.I won’t survive that.I slide it into the bag, like I’m placing something fragile into storage, like I’m carefully packing her away with me. On top of it, I add the framed photograph of the two of us in Amsterdam, and zip the bag shut.
My gaze drifts around the room one last time. Everything hums with memories. I can’t take them all. I have to leave some pieces of our life behind. After lifting the packed duffel and the case holding her favorite guitar from the bed, I head to the door.
I pause at a photo of her smiling in the summer sun. Her face is radiant. I press my fingers to the glass and whisper, “I’m sorry. I tried… I tried to keep going. I really did. But I can’t. Not like this.” My apology never feels sufficient. They are so small against the enormity of what is missing.
The kitchen feels cold and cavernous when I step into it. It used to feel warm when we were dancing barefoot at midnight. My phone rests on the counter, where I left it a couple of days ago. I pick it up and swipe my thumb across the screen. It is flooded with messages I haven’t opened and calls I let go to voicemail. People checking in and loved ones telling me to hold on. Ignoring them all, I open a new message to Mason. I delete it, then type again. What I need to say feels both impossible and necessary.
I can’t live this life without her.
It might be dramatic, but it’s my truth. Living like this—suffocating in a life I’ve been forced to endure without her—doesn’t feel like living. It feels like waiting in purgatory until I can join her in heaven.
I press send before I can rethink it—or what I’m doing—and drop the phone back to the counter. The duffel pulls when I sling it over my shoulder, the weight biting into the muscles as I walk toward the front door. With every step, I think about turning back. I could unpack this bag and try to pretend that everything is fine. Stay here, where her scent still lingers, and catch the outline of her shape in the shadows. But staying here feels like being slowly suffocated. I know I can’t stay, surrounded by memories. Not anymore.
When I reach the front door—where Rosie kissed me goodbye the last time—my hand rests on the knob longer than it should.Goodbye, dreamer.I open the door, and thecold air hits me like a wall.The night is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic in the distance.
