I just couldn't believe I was back again.

There I was, a year after leaving the Palm Woods, back in front of its main doors. It brought back too many memories-mostly painful ones.

But I ignored them, and walked through the glass door that my newly hired bodyguard Quincy (i know, what kind of celebrity security agent is named Quincy?) was holding open for me. The sounds that were all too familiar wafted toward me in the humid L.A air, and it was pretty hard to suppress a tiny smile. I had sure missed this place.

Some people glanced at me-then did a double-take. "Is that...?"

"No, it can't be..."

"No, i really think it is!"

"What is she doing here?'

Quincy, still at the door, was caught off-guard, and soon a throng of people had enclosed around me. I heard multiple, high-pitched screams, a bunch of people calling out my name. pens and tablets were soon being forced into my hands for me to scribble a quick autograph onto before another was thrust into my shaking fingers. In all the commotion, people were pushing and shoving, and I kept imagining myself-a teenager, just about 180 pounds-being crushed under the insanity of my own fans.

I felt a strong hand grasp the back of my sweater-shirt. Not even putting up a fight, I was lifted above all the groping hands and pressing bodies and ended up in the arms of...

"Freight Train!" i exclaimed as the hefty man carried me to the elevator, Quincy right behind us, keeping the gathered crowd at a distance. I hadn't seen Freight Train since I had left...

Once the elevator opened, Freight Train stepped inside, and pressed the level 5 and level 2 buttons. Quincy, who had been holding off the now massive crowd, practically jumped into the elevator just before the doors closed. Finally, the three of us were alone in the elevator, and i could feel each of us letting out a sigh of relief as Freight Train set me down.

"Thanks Freight Train." I said, smiling up at my rescuer, who towered over my short stature.

He smiled back. "Any time."

"I'm sorry, its my bad." Quincy mumbled. "I should have gotten to you first..."

"Its OK. Things happens." I replied, not wanting my big, strong, supposed-to-be-threatening-and-intimidating bodyguard to cry. "Freight Train, remember the time you lost the boys at a carnival?"

While the two told tales of lost celebrities and obsessive fans, I couldn't help but remember when he had been standing in the elevator with me, close enough to touch...

I sighed, remembering that, as much as i want it to happen again, it won't and it can't.

My room was already prepped for my arrival, so we said goodbye to Freight Train as he got off on the second floor to go get his boys-Big Time Rush. You're going to have to face him eventually, I kept reminding myself. I tried to imagine what I would say to him, since we were more than probably going to meet again. Sorry for breaking your heart and totally trashing your life?

Somehow I didn't think that would go over well.

The soft 'ping' of the elevator woke me up, and I followed Quincy to where i would be staying for my time back at the Palm Woods-room C5. I used the key, which Quincy had picked up before I had even gotten to L.A., and opened the door to my temporary home. It was quite bland, actually-and, sadly, I knew I wouldn't be staying long enough to have time to change the decor. Any spare time I'd have-between movie auditions and shoots, interviews, and company and red carpet parties-would be dedicated to catching up on my sleep, which I hadn't been getting a lot of lately...for more than one reason.

"Now, if you need anything, just give my cell a ring. I'll be in the room next door, and DO NOT open the door to any strangers, unless I'm here. I'll be checking in on you every hour, OK?"

"Sure thing, Quincy." he began to walk to the next door over. "Don't forget to visit the pool!" he simply shook his head and entered his apartment.

At the same time, I slipped into my own. As I had stated before, the apartment was excessively bland. Cream walls and white carpet, with some white tiles for the kitchen, which was comprised of all chrome appliances. I walked into my new bedroom, which had soft, baby blue walls and-who'd a guessed-white carpet.

"At least the bed is comfortable." I said out loud to myself, flinging my single suitcase onto the floor while i flopped onto the bed, which had a dark, indigo comforter. I laid on my back, staring up at the white ceiling, the overall mood of my apartment reflecting my own.

"Home sweet home, Camille."

Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the bathroom, in fresh clothes and my hair up in a towel turban. Taking a long, steaming hot shower-while of course singing "Dynamite" and "Billionaire" (Tao Cruz is my new musical obsession)-energized me enough to make me feel able to go out and get something healthy to eat. I had to watch my figure.

I checked my phone, which had been laying on the bedside table. "Crap!" I exclaimed, seeing that I had four missed calls, and four new voice mails.

The first three were from Quincy; my only thought was why on earth did he need to call three times?I knew the answer of course: for my safety. He had been calling to make sure I was okay- he didn't seem too distressed, so I figured he could wait five minutes for me to check my other call.

The third was from a rep from the company producing the movie I was working on. He told me that a limo would be picking me up for a People's Weekly Magazine Interview that night, 7'oclock sharp, and that the topics to be discussed (and the answers I would be expected to be given) would be emailed to me immediately. I glanced at my electronic clock-it was only two in the afternoon. I had plenty of time to memorize my answers and get ready for the interview.

I set my phone down on my bedside table, struck by a sudden feeling of despair and depression. At that moment, there was nothing I wanted to do more than to lay down on my sofa (however bland it was) and eat an entire case of chocolate and vanilla ice cream while watching old TV sitcoms that most people had never even heard of. Then maybe I could read that book that I had put in my suitcase five months ago and had never had the time to start.

However, I had other things to do. So i called Quincy and told him I was fine, and that I would keep my phone on me for the next time that he called. I checked my email and printed out a copy of the most likely questions to be asked by the magazine interviewers, the answers the company wanted me to give, and what to do if I was asked a question that i wasn't prepared for. I began to memorize the questions.

By the time I was done all this, it was 4:30. I figured I had 2 hours to get ready, then a half an hour to plan my escape from the Palm Woods with Quincy. I had been wondering if I should call Freight Train, for back up-strangely enough, I had his number in my phone-but I figured he would be busy with the boys. Quincy would be adequate for this mission.

"MISS LARSON!"

Totally unprepared for Quincy yelling at me, I jumped a foot into the air and hit my head on the roof of the limo, causing the buds of my headphones to fall out of my ears. "OUUUUCH!" I yelped, grasping my head with my hands. My eyes teared a little, but not enough to for me to cry. Quincy opened the sliding window between the front seat of the limo-where he was crammed into the passenger seat-and the back seats, where I sat.

"We're almost there." then he noticed I was rubbing the top of my head. "You okay?"

"Just swell Quincy." I muttered through gritted teeth before stowing my Ipod into the lock box under the seat.

"Now, we're gonna get out, and I'll escort you to the interview room. Once you're done, I'll come in and get you, and we'll go out the back way. Okay?"

"Alright Quincy." I said as the car halted. The door to the limo opened, and I cautiously peered out. Good, I thought. There was literally no one between me and the door to the interview building-no fans, photographers, or any other suspicious characters. Just nice, good old cement.

I climbed out of the limo confidently; though I didn't see the photographers, they could always be hiding in some trees or be painted and blending in with the building's wall or something else insane. Anyway, I had to look like the Camille Larson that the world wanted to see; someone caring and loving, with a calm personality but a witty sense of humor. Not the crazy, boisterous, slap-happy Camille Larson.

I haven't slapped someone in over two months.

I walked into the building. It was just like all the other interview places I had been before: a front desk, a little lobby, and tons of doors and hallways leading to different offices and rooms where magazine pictures could be taken. However, my stomach did a somersault and my mouth instantly tasted like pennies when I saw who was sitting on the lobby sofas.

Its alright, I told myself, though I wasn't able to tear my vision away from them. They won't see you.

Just as I thought this, Carlos Garcia turned his head toward the door and started frantically waving his hand. All the other boys turned to face me-it was too late to turn away as if I didn't see them, and, even if it hadn't been too late, I wasn't sure if I would have been able to manage to look away.

I saw Carlos Garcia, waving wildly at me in his usual giddy way.

I saw James Diamond smile at me, and offer a casual wave.

I saw Logan Mitchell look at me, letting his dimples show as he grinned.

And I saw Kendall Knight turn his dazzling green gaze in my direction, first with a look of curiosity, then a hardened, unwavering stare of pain and bitterness that glued my feet to my spot.