The world looked softer that morning — like the rain from the night before had washed away some invisible weight.
Jason woke up with music still echoing in his head and Georgia's laugh lingering in his chest. For the first time in years, he didn't dread the sunlight streaming through his blinds.
He brewed coffee, strummed a few chords, and smiled at how ordinary happiness could feel extraordinary after darkness.
Then his phone buzzed.
> Georgia: Meet me at the art studio after class? I want to show you something.
Jason: Wouldn't miss it.
He didn't know it yet, but that message would begin a chapter neither of them were ready for.
Georgia's studio was her sanctuary. A messy mix of paint-splattered floors, half-finished canvases, and the faint smell of turpentine. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, cutting across her latest work — a mural of two figures reaching for each other through a cracked glass wall.
When Jason arrived, she was sitting on the floor, painting in silence, headphones in, lost in her world. Her brush moved with purpose, as if every stroke was an apology to someone she'd once failed.
He leaned on the doorway, watching her. For a moment, he didn't want to interrupt. There was something magnetic about the way she painted — like she was breathing in color and exhaling emotion.
Then she noticed him. Her smile lit up the room.
"You're early," she said.
"Couldn't wait," he replied, stepping inside. "This place is… you."
"That's either a compliment or an insult," she teased.
"Definitely a compliment. Beautiful chaos."
She laughed and tossed him a rag. "Then help me clean up the chaos before I show you the surprise."
They worked side by side, their hands brushing occasionally as they stacked canvases and wiped brushes. The silence between them was easy — filled with the quiet rhythm of shared space.
When everything was in order, Georgia took a deep breath. "Okay. Don't laugh, okay?"
"I'd never."
She uncovered a large canvas. Jason froze.
It was a portrait of him — sitting on the bridge, guitar beside him, eyes half-closed as if listening to something only he could hear. The light in the painting wasn't sunlight; it was music. His music.
Jason's throat tightened. "Georgia… this is—"
"I painted it after your performance," she said softly. "I wanted to capture that moment — the one where you finally looked free."
He stared at the painting, overwhelmed. No one had ever seen him like this before — not even Mara.
"It's perfect," he said, voice breaking. "You made me look like someone who believes again."
"Maybe you do," she whispered.
They stood there, close enough to feel each other's breath. Jason wanted to reach out, to touch her cheek, to close the space between them — but then Georgia stepped back.
Her eyes darkened. "There's something you should know."
Jason blinked. "What is it?"
She hesitated. "It's about why I came here. To the city."
He waited, but she looked away. Her hands trembled slightly as she wiped them on her jeans.
"Georgia, hey," he said gently. "You don't have to tell me if you're not ready."
"I want to," she said quickly. "I just don't know how."
Jason stepped closer, voice calm. "Then don't force it. I'll be here — whenever you're ready to talk."
Her eyes softened. "You always say the right thing."
He smiled faintly. "I just say what I mean."
That evening, after Jason left, Georgia sat by her canvas again — the one of him on the bridge. She ran her fingers along the edge of the painting, then reached for her phone.
A single unread message glowed at the top of the screen.
It had been there for weeks.
From Noah.
> Noah: You can't just disappear, G. You owe me an explanation.
Her stomach twisted. She'd tried to bury the past, but it had followed her here — across cities, through silence, into Jason's life.
She typed and deleted a dozen replies before locking the phone.
Noah didn't belong in this new chapter.
He belonged to a time she'd promised herself she'd never return to.
But promises break — even the ones whispered through tears.
Two days later, Jason and Georgia met at the rooftop garden of her apartment building. The city spread beneath them — lights, motion, noise, life.
They sat cross-legged on the floor, eating pizza and watching the sunset bleed into twilight.
Jason picked up his guitar and started playing softly. Georgia listened, humming along.
"Your song's been stuck in my head all week," she said. "The line about the stars waiting to be seen."
Jason smiled. "That one kind of wrote itself. You inspired it, you know."
She laughed, pretending not to blush. "Oh? Should I start charging royalties?"
"You could," he teased. "Or just let me pay you in songs."
"Hmm," she said, pretending to think. "Songs and coffee."
"Deal."
They shared a grin. Then the laughter faded, replaced by something quieter — a weight neither of them fully named.
Jason leaned back, eyes tracing the skyline. "It's weird. I used to think love was this… constant. Like once you had it, it stayed. But now, I think it's something you have to keep choosing, over and over."
Georgia looked down, voice barely audible. "And what happens when someone stops choosing?"
Jason hesitated. "Then maybe it's not love anymore."
Her gaze turned distant. "That's what I thought too."
He looked at her. "Georgia, what happened before we met?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she stood and walked to the edge of the roof, her hair catching the wind.
"When I was seventeen," she began slowly, "I fell in love with someone. He was older — charming, confident, full of dreams. We planned everything. College, art, a life together."
Jason listened, heart tightening.
"But then I found out he wasn't who I thought he was. He lied — about almost everything. And when I tried to leave, he made sure I couldn't. For a long time, I felt… trapped. Scared to trust anyone again."
Her voice cracked. "When I finally left, I promised myself I'd never fall for anyone. Never again."
Jason stood beside her, silent.
"That's why the painting's called Never," she whispered. "Not because of you — because of me. It's the word I've been hiding behind."
The city hummed below them, indifferent to the small heartbreak unfolding above it.
Jason reached out slowly, careful not to startle her. "Georgia… you don't have to hide anymore."
Her tears caught the light. "But what if it happens again? What if I ruin this too?"
He shook his head. "You won't. Because this time, it's not about perfection. It's about healing. Together."
She looked at him, searching his eyes for doubt — and found none.
For the first time, she let him hold her.
The moment wasn't loud or cinematic; it was quiet and real — two broken hearts finding rhythm in the same beat.
That night, Jason couldn't sleep. Her words replayed in his head, echoing through the chords he strummed restlessly.
He'd known pain, but not that kind of betrayal.
He wanted to protect her, but he also knew — she didn't need saving.
She just needed someone to stay.
And he was ready to stay.
But fate rarely moves in straight lines.
Because as Georgia finally began to breathe easier, her phone lit up again.
The same name.
The same message — only this time, it wasn't just words.
> Noah: I'm in the city. We need to talk.
Her hands trembled. She stared at the screen until her reflection blurred.
The past she thought she'd buried had found her.
And this time, she wasn't sure if Jason — or their fragile beginning — could survive it.