Our first month in Los Angeles flies by so fast, I barely have time to take stock of my new life.

Between moving into the new apartment — a gorgeous, sunshine-drenched loft in West Hollywood that I share with the guys — and working nonstop on our album, it’s been a blur of meetings and press events, late night writing sessions and recording time in the studio.

The very first day we arrived, Francesca sat us down and had us sing Faded at least a dozen times, until we had a polished single she could give to radio stations as a teaser for our debut album. Usually, things don’t turn around that quickly, but with the online buzz still building around Ryder and me from our viral Fourth of July kiss, it was full steam ahead.

Three days after we touched down in California, Wildwood officially dropped our first single. No one was more surprised than me when it raced to the number one spot on the charts the following day. The fact that it’s been there ever since is even harder to wrap my mind around.

Francesca’s coy I-told-you-so smile is fixed pretty permanently to her face, these days.

After the single hit number one, it was pure madness. Every news station wanted an interview, every radio station wanted an exclusive. At Francesca’s insistence, Ryder and I appeared on The Eileen Show — the most popular daytime television program in America. We didn’t do much but sit there, holding hands and smiling like idiots while she replayed the clip of our kiss for her audience, but for some reason, people loved it. The interview was so widely streamed, it crashed Eileen’s website servers.

She sent over a lovely fruit basket as a thank you.

The closer we get to releasing the full album, the more frenzied the press is becoming. The boys don’t seem to mind — it’s only me who shies away when the paparazzi snap our photo while we’re wandering down the Sunset Strip, or exploring the Farmers Market, or popping in and out of the many art galleries that dot our neighborhood. Every time it happens, I feel frozen inside. A deer in headlights. It’s even worse when tourists run up begging for a selfie with Wildwood — or, if they’re teenage girls, exclusively with Ryder, though even Linc and Aiden get a fair amount of attention, these days.

They smile and pose, candid and natural.

I hover and squirm, wholly out of place.

With each passing week, they lean harder into our new lives here, while I find myself withdrawing further and further into myself. I paint on a smile and push through — for their sake, if not for my own. But it’s getting harder to keep my head above water. Especially on nights like tonight.

I pour myself a glass of water and walk out onto the terrace, my feet bare against the cool mosaic tile. The apartment is so quiet, I feel like the walls are caving in on me. I collapse onto one of the deck chairs with a tired sigh, listening to the hustle and bustle coming from the street five stories down.

WeHo is so different from Nashville, it makes my head spin. Gone are the honky-tonks and dive bars, the fried chicken and sprawling plantations. We have stumbled into a world of upscale restaurants and designer stores, modern art museums and rooftop pools. The music that pours from the speakers here is electropop or dubstep. I haven’t heard a single country song since we stepped off the plane, aside from the ones I’m busy writing with Ryder.

My favorite nights are the ones we spend sitting out here together, trying new lyrics and plucking different melodies on our beat-up guitars. In the studio, everything is state of the art… but I never feel quite as comfortable using a ten-thousand dollar Martin as I do strumming the worn strings of my old Yamaha alone with him in the quiet.

Those are the only times I see a glimmer of the life we had back in Nashville, before everything changed; the only moments I feel like we’re really a couple. Not hanging with Linc and Aiden, not putting on a smile for the cameras, not being briefed by Francesca on our schedule for the following week.

Just us.

Him and me.

Writing words and playing notes. Touching hands and brushing lips.

I sit up when I think I hear a key in the lock, but it’s just our next door neighbor coming home for the night. Disappointment swirls through me.

I should’ve known it wasn’t them. It’s far too early. The boys are usually out till nearly dawn when they see a show at The Viper Room or The Roxy or The Whisky, nearby music hotspots that are always packed to the hilt, hosting some band or another. Sometimes, they drag me out with them, but since I have no interest in drinking or clubbing, I’m far happier here, reading or composing.

Sure you don’t want to come, baby? Ryder asks, already halfway out the door, Lincoln yelling at him to hurry up from the hallway.

I just grin and roll my eyes. You go. I like my ear drums intact.

I’ll stay here with you, he offers, but I can see in his eyes how much he wants to be out there. Soaking in the energy like a sponge. An extrovert in his natural habitat.

I glance at my watch, wondering what time they’ll make it home tonight. It’s already pushing midnight, but I doubt they’ll be back before three — stumbling through the door, smelling like cigarettes and sweat, drunker than sin, roaring with laughter. I swallow a cold sip of water and tilt my head up to the sky, but I can’t make out a single constellation overhead.

Orion and Scorpius.

Two opposites, forever chasing each other across cosmos.

Out of nowhere, a rogue tear streaks down my cheek. I wipe it away with the tip of my finger and stare at the shimmering droplet, mystified.

Why am I crying?

I’ve got money, love, security, friendship…

It’s everything I ever wanted.

Isn’t it?

Brushing the tears away, I pull my fancy new iPad into my lap. Francesca insisted on it.

“Bad enough you refuse to get a cellphone,” she informed me, shoving the tablet into my hands. “But no email address? What is this, the Stone Age? How on earth am I supposed to get in touch with you? How on earth will I coordinate your schedule?”

I open the calendar app and read through the events she’s set up for tomorrow. Ryder and I have a radio interview with KLAX 102.3 tomorrow morning at seven sharp, to catch commuters on their way to work as we chat about the new album. Unease shivers through me at the prospect of another interview. No matter how many we do, they never get easier.

Bracing my shoulders, I tell myself to get over it. Tomorrow, I will smile politely. I will strive to be charming. I will laugh at all the appropriate intervals as we tell the story of our viral Fourth of July reunion, just as I’ve done every other time.

That was the best moment of my life, I’ll say, smiling over at Ryder.

Can it only be six weeks, since then? It feels like a lifetime has passed. I’ve told our story so many times now, it’s starting to feel like it happened to someone else. Like it’s not my story at all. Not me at all.

Just a girl I used to know, back in a city I used to love.

Another tear slides down my cheek. I scrub at it angrily.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, tonight.