“Shut up!” I roar. The sound tears through the parking lot, slicing the quiet night in half. “I can’t do this with you breathing down my neck, trying to fix me! I don’t want your fucking pity!” I push at him, hard, and he stumbles back, more shocked than hurt. His eyes widen, sadness flashing in them. For a second, I almost—almost—regret it. But the anger and the ache are stronger than any guilt I feel.
My hands shake as I grip the Bronco door handle. Mason takes a tentative step toward me. “East?—”
“Don’t,” I spit again, yanking my body from his reach. “Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Just leave me the fuck alone!” My voice dies in my throat. I yank the door open, swing myself in, and slam it behind me.
With effort, I manage to get the keys in the ignition as Mason’s voice echoes outside the window. “East! Easton!”
I start the SUV, and the engine roars under my fingertips. After slipping it into drive, the tires squeal softly against the asphalt as I peel away, the empty liquor bottle rolling slightly in the passenger seat.
The city blurs past as the studio lights disappear behind me. I drive aimlessly. Past the streetlights, past the bars, and past the place we used to visit that now only reminds me she’sgone. My chest tightens, tears sliding unbidden down my cheeks. I don’t fight them.I can’t.
I don’t know where I’m going.I don’t care.I just know I have to keep moving. I drive, with my hands trembling, my empty chest growing tighter, and tears blurring the road ahead.
February 23rd
Dear Belonging,
This week brought something I didn’t realize I was missing… friends. Real ones. Sarah and Billy, the people I see every night behind the bar, invited me out for dinner. Just a casual thing, pizza, beer and bitching about horrible customers. But somehow it became one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time. We laughed until our sides hurt and traded stories about our worst shifts. It’s strange, realizing that people can see you… the real, messy, “trying to figure it out you,” and still likeyou.
I didn’t think I’d hit it off with anyone so quickly. Sarah has a way of making everyone feel like they belong, like nothing is too small to matter. And Billy… he’s quiet, steady, and somehow notices the little things you don’t even realize you’re doing. Being around them is easy, the kind of easy that makes you forget about the empty apartment waiting for you at the end of the night, the city that feels too big, or the awkward silences that used to stretch on forever.
After dinner, we walked around a bit, stopping at a tiny shop with lights spilling onto the sidewalk, and I remember how good it felt to not be entirely alone. It’s not just the company—it’s the sense of being seen, of being part of something outside my own little bubble of work and class and trying not to mess everything up. For a few hours, the city felt smaller, warmer, almost like it was letting me in, instead of just watching me struggle from the edges.
I still have mornings when the apartment is too quiet and evenings when loneliness creeps back in, but now there’s a thread weavingthrough it all. Friends who notice me, who laugh with me, and who make this city a little less intimidating. I’m not “all the way there” yet, but I’m beginning to feel like maybe I don’t have to be. And for now, that kind of feels like more than enough.
March 6th
Dear Fame,
Tonight was supposed to be ordinary. Another busy shift… another drunken crowd… more stacks of empty glasses clinking together at the end of the bar. I tied my apron, memorized faces, and moved on autopilot like I’ve learned to do. I thought I knew how the night would go, but I was wrong.
I was serving tables when he picked up the guitar.
At first, I barely noticed him—just another musician setting up, another hopeful soul chasing a song and a career they’ll probably never attain. But then he opened his mouth, and the room changed. Truly. The kind of silence that falls slowly when people don’t even realize they’ve stopped talking. His voicewasn’t loud or showy. It was raw and honest. The kind of voice that wrapped around the room and prickled goosebumps over your skin. I stood still for longer than I should have, forgetting an order. Hell, forgetting myself. It was unlike anything I’ve ever heard—like he meant every word, whether anyone was listening or not.
They announced him again on the mic at the end of his set, and something about it stuck. Easton Shaw. You’re going to hear that name again. We all are. I don’t know how I know, but I do. He’s going to be famous someday. A voice that defies decades.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s cute. Dark hair, soft grayish-blue eyes, and that perfect scruff that looks accidental but definitely isn’t. He has an easy smile, too, the slightly lopsided kind you can’t help but match when he tosses it in your direction. After his set, he came up to the bar—three separate times, actually—asking if he could buy me a drink. Each time I laughed it off, suddenly very aware of my messy ponytail and how hard my heart was beating.
Some moments feel too new, too fragile to pin down with ink. But I will say this: tonight reminded me why I came here. For moments like this. For unexpected magic on an otherwise normal night. For the feeling that anything—anyone—could walk in and change the rhythm of your life withoutwarning.
April 11th
Dear Persistence,
I’m starting to think this man doesn’t know the meaning of the word subtle.
Easton plays at the bar two nights a week now, like it’s a standing appointment with fate. Same songs and quiet confidence. And each night, the room reacts the same way when he sings. And every single night (without fail), he asks me out. Sometimes it’s casual. Some nights it’s clever. Tonight, it came wrapped in that half-smile like he already knows my answer but asks anyway. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s asked me out at least a hundred times in the last month.
And still, no after no, he keeps coming back.
There’s something almost admirable about it. He’s not pushy or entitled, just relentless… in the most annoyingly flattering way possible. Like he’s decided I’m worth the effort and refuses to be embarrassed about it. I keep telling myself I’m immune, that I’m focused, that I didn’t move to Nashville to get distracted by a musician with pretty eyes and a dangerously adorable smile.
But the truth is, he’s getting harder to turn down. Not because of the asking, but because of the consistency. The way he shows up, night after night, looking at me like I’m not just the girl serving drinks, but someone he genuinely wants to know.
I don’t know what I’m going to do about him yet. I just know that the word “no” is starting to feel less solid every time I say it.
April 27th
