After resting the guitar across my lap, I let my head fall back against her headstone as I finish the bottle of whiskey at my side. I miss the stupid, beautiful details of our life. It’s all gone, and it’s my fault. I couldn’t save her. I’ve been living on whiskey and sorrow since she died, and it’s not enough. “I can’t do this,” I whisper against the lip of the bottle. “I can’t go on without you, dreamer.”
Time slips by—minutes, maybe hours—as I rest on a grave that seems impossibly small for the great life itnow holds. I stay, shivering in the cold night air, broken and hollow, holding on to the impossible weight of loving her and knowing she is gone. Because loving her is all I have left, and it’s killing me.
July 19th
Dear Heart,
We didn’t come to Nashville for this. This was 100% not the plan. But here I am, falling for Easton.
And not just falling. I’ve fallen. Completely. Irrevocably. The kind of head-over-heels when you don’t even remember the moment your feet left the ground. You just realize one day that you’re already in freefall. Breathless, smiling, unbelievably happy, and terrified all at once.
Somewhere between late-night shifts and curbside conversations, his songs, and the way he listens when I talk, he becamemore than a distraction. More than a crush. He became the person I look for in a room without meaning to. The first person who pops into my head when something good happens. The voice I replay in my mind when the city feels too loud and I feel too small.
I didn’t plan this. This was actually the LAST thing I wanted. I came to Nashville for independence and growth. To build a bigger life that belonged to me and only me. I told myself I wouldn’t get tangled up in anyone else, especially not someone chasing a dream as big and unpredictable as his. And yet, here I am… so madly in love with him, it almost knocks the wind out of me.
And it’s absolutely terrifying.
Because loving him means risk. It means caring deeply about something I can’t control. His future, his music, the way this city can lift you up just as quickly as it can pull you under. It means opening my heart in ways I locked up after losing my family, and in places the foster families who took me in didn’t deserve. A type of love I didn’t know I was capable of. And some nights,when I’m alone in my apartment and the city hums outside my window, that fear feels ungodly heavy.
But then there’s the other side of it. The warmth. The certainty. The way being with him feels like exhaling after holding my breath for years. The way he sees me not as the girl serving drinks or the small-town escapee trying to prove something, but asme. Fully. Honestly. Imperfectly. With no expectations attached.
I’ve never loved anyone like this before. Not with this depth, and certainly not with this clarity. It’s not dramatic or chaotic. It’s steady, all-consuming, and real. And that, somehow, makes it even scarier. Because it matters. He matters. More with every day that passes.
I don’t know where this leads. I don’t know how love fits into the life I’m building here. Maybe it doesn’t. Or… maybe it’s the foundation of a new life I wasn’t prepared for. All I know is that my heart has already decided something my head is still trying to catch up with.
So here I am, heart. In love. Terrified. Hopeful. And braver than I everexpected to be.
August 9th
Dear Heart,
We’re done for…
He loves me, too.
Not just the casual “I like you” or the quiet hints. I mean, he really loves me. He didn’t whisper it quietly into my ear or blurt it into conversation. He sang it... A song he wrote for me, center stage, under the lights, with a spotlight on me. His chords and husky voice trembled through the room, every word soaked in adoration I’ve never heard before. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, he proclaimed it through the speakers for everyone to hear. His voice carried over the applause, the clinking glasses, and the chaos of the bar. Every head turned, and every eye might have been on us, but I didn’t care.
Because the way he looked at me, it wasn’t for the applause or the reactions of anyone else. It was only for me. And when I stepped onto the stage after him, heart racing like I’d run a marathon, and he kissed me, the bar melted away in that cinematic, nonsensicalway it does in movies. The whole bar disappeared, and it was like the world had shrunk until it fit just around the two of us. For a fleeting moment, the chaos of life faded into a soft hum while we existed in our own bubble of certainty, love, and raw, ridiculous joy.
It was terrifying in the best possible way. Loving him means risking everything, but being loved back like this… It’s like the universe gave me permission to believe in the impossible. And I do. I can’t stop smiling, just thinking about it. It wasn’t just a moment. It was a declaration. Not for me, but for us. And maybe for anyone who doubted that this kind of love existed.
September 3rd
Dear Unexpected Roommate,
I think Easton lives here now.
Not officially. There was no announcement, no “move-in day” celebration, nothing that made itreal on paper. But slowly, almost imperceptibly, his things started appearing in my tiny apartment. A toothbrush for the nights he spent here. A couple of changes of clothes. A stack of books that don’t belong to me. And then one day, he just… didn’t go home. His guitar case by the door and a jacket draped over the turquoise secondhand couch took up residency like they belonged here all along.
And they do.
I love having him here. The way his presence fills the space without ever feeling crowded. And the way the apartment, too small for two, somehow seems bigger and warmer with him in it. I love the sound of him breathing beside me in the dark and the way his hand finds mine in the middle of the night. Falling asleep in his arms is like coming home after a lifetime of wandering. Even with morning breath and his (infuriatingly, always perfectly tousled) hair, I love waking up to find his head on the pillow beside mine.
He’s become part of my rhythm, part of myworld, and I can’t imagine the apartment—or my life—without him.
I didn’t plan for this, and yet it feels inevitable.
It feels… right.
