The summer came fast that year — thick with heat, humming with change.
Jason's music had started spreading. What began as small gigs in local bars had grown into invitations to perform across cities. Labels were noticing. Streams were rising.
And Georgia was proud — proud and terrified all at once.
Because she knew what success could do.
She'd seen love swallowed by ambition before.
It began with a phone call.
Jason had been out running errands when his phone buzzed.
"Unknown number," he muttered, answering anyway.
"Jason Ward?" a woman's voice said, crisp and professional.
"This is Valerie Lane from Meridian Records. We've been following your work — especially Home Is a Person. We'd like to meet."
Jason stopped walking. "You're serious?"
"Completely. We think you're ready for a studio album. Our team's in Los Angeles — can you fly out next week?"
That night, he told Georgia everything. They sat on the couch, half-eaten pizza forgotten between them.
"You're going," she said finally, her voice steady despite the ache beneath it.
"I don't know," Jason admitted. "It's… a lot. A different city, new people. What if it changes everything?"
She reached out, took his hand. "Jason, this is what you've worked for. You deserve this."
He looked at her. "And you? What about us?"
Georgia smiled softly. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
For the next week, they lived in a strange rhythm — excitement tangled with quiet sadness.
Jason practiced, recorded demos, packed. Georgia helped, hiding the lump in her throat behind busy hands.
One evening, while folding one of his shirts, she paused, clutching the fabric like it could hold him there.
Jason walked in, saw her still, and set the guitar down.
He crossed the room, cupped her face in his hands. "Hey. Look at me."
She did.
"I'm not leaving you," he said softly. "I'm just… stepping toward what we dreamed about."
"I know," she whispered. "I'm just scared that when you get there, the world will give you everything — and you'll realize I was just a stop along the way."
Jason pulled her close. "You were never a stop, Georgia. You're the map."
She laughed through her tears. "That's cheesy."
"Maybe," he said, smiling. "But true."
The night before his flight, they went back to the bridge — their ritual.
The city was alive around them, and yet the moment felt suspended in stillness.
"Promise me something," Georgia said quietly.
Jason took her hand. "Anything."
"No matter how big the world gets, don't lose this — us. Don't let the noise drown what's real."
He nodded. "Never."
She smiled faintly. "You say that word like it's magic."
He squeezed her hand. "Because it is."
Los Angeles was everything Jason expected — loud, bright, relentless.
He was thrown into a whirlwind of meetings, producers, and rehearsals. Days bled into nights. Messages went unanswered longer than he meant.
But every time he sat at the piano in the studio, he thought of her — the way she'd close her eyes when she listened, the warmth in her smile.
He called whenever he could.
> Jason: Miss your coffee. The L.A. stuff tastes like burnt dreams.
Georgia: Then come home soon.
Jason: Working on it. Every song I write sounds like you anyway.
Back in the city, Georgia tried to stay busy. She poured herself into her art, into preparing for her next exhibit, into pretending the apartment didn't feel too quiet.
Sometimes she'd scroll through social media and see photos — Jason with producers, other artists, fans. He always looked tired but radiant.
The pride always came first. Then the ache.
She trusted him — but distance has a way of planting small doubts in even the strongest hearts.
One night, as she worked late in the studio, her phone buzzed.
> Unknown Number: You think he'll really come back? People change when they get a taste of more.
She froze.
Another message followed.
> Unknown Number: You're too fragile for that life, G. You'll only break again.
Her heart dropped. She didn't need to ask who it was.
Noah.
The old fear twisted in her chest. But this time, she didn't delete the messages. She took a screenshot — proof — then blocked the number.
Her hands still trembled, but not with fear. With fury.
She wasn't that girl anymore.
She was done letting ghosts speak louder than her truth.
A few days later, Jason finally called again — 3 a.m. his time.
"Hey," he said, voice rough. "You awake?"
"Yeah," she whispered. "I was painting."
There was a pause. "I miss you, G."
Her throat tightened. "Then come home."
"I want to," he said. "But Valerie wants me to stay a few more weeks — said we're close to finishing."
Georgia forced a smile he couldn't see. "That's good, Jason. You're doing amazing."
"I'll make it up to you. I promise."
"I know."
But after they hung up, she sat in the dark for a long time, staring at the half-finished painting in front of her.
It was supposed to be sunlight breaking through clouds.
Now it just looked like the storm was winning.
Two weeks passed.
The silence stretched.
Georgia sent messages — small things, like how's the studio? or I made your favorite pasta tonight. Sometimes he replied hours later, sometimes not at all.
She knew he was busy.
But knowing didn't make the loneliness softer.
One night, she opened her laptop and saw an interview.
Jason on a music podcast, laughing, talking about his upcoming album.
Then the host said, "You've been linked to a few artists out there. Anyone special inspiring these songs?"
Jason hesitated — a heartbeat too long. Then he smiled. "I guess inspiration comes from everywhere."
The words weren't cruel.
But they hit her like glass.
Everywhere.
Everywhere but home.
She didn't sleep that night.
Instead, she painted — furious, wild strokes, color bleeding into color until the canvas was chaos.
She didn't cry. Not yet.
When Jason finally called days later, she almost didn't answer.
"Hey," he said, his voice careful. "You okay? You've been quiet."
Georgia laughed bitterly. "You noticed?"
He sighed. "Don't do that."
"Do what? Feel like I'm disappearing from your life?"
"G, come on—"
"I watched your interview," she cut in. "The one where you said your inspiration comes from everywhere."
He was silent.
"Do you know what that felt like?" she whispered. "Hearing you erase me in front of the world?"
Jason's voice cracked. "It wasn't like that, Georgia. I was nervous. I didn't want them digging into our life."
"So you hid me," she said. "You made me invisible."
He exhaled sharply. "You think this is easy for me? I'm trying to make this work — for us! But everything I do, every word I say, gets twisted."
"Then maybe you need to figure out who you're doing it for," she said quietly.
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
Then Jason said, "Maybe I do."
And the line went dead.
That night, Georgia didn't paint.
She just sat in the dark, listening to the storm outside.
Her chest hurt, but it wasn't the same pain as before.
It was quieter, older — like her heart was remembering an ache it had known too well.
Jason couldn't sleep either.
The hotel walls felt too white, too far from everything that mattered.
He thought about her — the way she said home, the way she believed in him before anyone else did.
He'd messed up. He knew it.
But fear — of losing her, of losing himself — had made him choose wrong.
He picked silence when he should've picked truth.
And now, silence was all he had.
Days blurred.
Georgia kept busy — finishing her exhibit, avoiding questions about Jason, avoiding herself.
But every time she looked at her newest painting — the storm breaking into morning — she saw him in it.
Because no matter how far he'd gone, he was still there in her colors.
A week later, an envelope arrived.
No return address. Just her name, handwritten.
Inside was a plane ticket.
And a note:
> The album isn't complete without the song I wrote for you.
But I can't finish it alone.
Please come.
— J*
Georgia's breath caught.
The flight left in two days.
She closed her eyes, torn between the ache and the longing.
Part of her wanted to throw it away — to protect herself from the cycle of hope and hurt.
But another part, the part that still believed in their never, whispered something softer:
Maybe the sunrise only comes after the storm.