The morning Georgia left, the city was wrapped in rain.
The kind that painted the streets silver and whispered, Go.
She stood in the doorway of her apartment, suitcase by her side, heart thudding in uneven beats.
For a long time, she'd sworn she would never chase anyone again. But Jason wasn't anyone.
He was the first person who made her feel seen — not as a fragile girl holding pieces of her past, but as someone who could create something beautiful even from the cracks.
And if there was even the smallest chance that what they had was still real, she had to find out.
The airport was half-empty, the smell of coffee and jet fuel blending with the low murmur of travelers.
Georgia sat by the window after checking in, watching planes rise and vanish into the clouds.
Her phone buzzed — a message from her best friend, Lila.
> Lila: You sure about this?
Georgia: No.
Lila: Then it's probably love.
Georgia smiled faintly. Probably love.
When her flight was called, she took a deep breath and walked forward — not because she was certain, but because sometimes, courage was just the quiet decision to try again.
The flight was long, and her mind refused to rest.
Every song on the in-flight playlist reminded her of him.
Every cloud below looked like a memory — their first night on the rooftop, his hands on the piano, his voice whispering "never."
She landed in Los Angeles at sunset. The sky burned orange, fading into rose and violet, like someone had spilled paint across the horizon.
Her phone buzzed again. A message from Jason.
> Jason: If you're on the plane, look west.
Georgia: I just landed.
Jason: Then look up.
She stepped outside into the warm evening air, suitcase dragging behind her.
And there he was — standing near the drop-off lane, hoodie over his head, hands in his pockets, watching her like he couldn't believe she was real.
"Hey," she said softly when she reached him.
Jason exhaled, his shoulders finally lowering. "You came."
"You sent a ticket," she said. "Didn't want it to go to waste."
He smiled faintly, but there was worry in his eyes. "I wasn't sure you'd still want to see me."
Georgia's gaze softened. "I wasn't sure either."
They stood there in silence for a moment — surrounded by noise, but in their own stillness.
Finally, Jason took her suitcase. "Come on. Let me show you what I've been working on."
The drive was quiet, the city sprawling around them — neon signs, palm trees swaying, people laughing at sidewalk cafés.
Georgia looked out the window. "It's beautiful here," she murmured.
Jason nodded. "Yeah. But it doesn't feel like home."
"Why not?"
He glanced at her, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "Because you weren't here."
Her heart twisted — not with pain this time, but with the slow warmth of something that refused to die.
The studio was tucked inside an old brick building downtown.
When they stepped inside, Georgia was hit by the scent of wood, coffee, and faint traces of guitar polish.
Jason flicked on the lights. The space was cluttered — sheets of music scattered across tables, empty coffee cups, scribbled lyrics on the walls.
In the center of the room sat a piano.
Her heart stilled.
He walked over and sat down. "I wrote something," he said quietly. "But I couldn't finish it. Not without you."
Georgia stayed by the door, hesitant. "Jason, you didn't need to fly me out for closure."
He looked up. "Closure? Georgia, this isn't closure. This is everything I never said."
He turned to the keys and began to play.
The melody was soft — the same notes she'd heard in his first song, Home Is a Person, but older, fuller, bruised with longing.
His voice came next, low and rough.
> If love was easy, I'd have never lost you
If dreams were gentle, I'd have never lied
But I built a world that forgot your laughter
And I'm tired of chasing stars that never shine
Georgia felt her eyes sting.
> So here I am, without the lights or the crowd
With the only truth I've found
Home was never a place — it was you
He stopped, fingers trembling above the keys.
Silence fell between them.
Then, softly, Georgia said, "Finish it."
Jason looked up. "I can't."
"Yes, you can," she whispered, walking toward him. "But not alone."
She sat beside him and placed her hand on the keys. Together, they found the next notes — the ones that had been waiting.
> Never say forever if it means goodbye
Never chase the world if it leaves us behind
Love isn't perfect — it's trying again
And again.
When the final chord faded, Georgia leaned her head against his shoulder.
Jason's voice broke. "I'm sorry for everything. For making you feel small when you're the only thing that made me feel alive."
"I know," she whispered. "I just didn't want to lose us to something we both wanted."
He turned to her. "Then don't let me go now."
She smiled faintly. "I didn't fly across the country to say goodbye."
Later that night, they sat on the rooftop of his hotel, watching the city below — a sea of lights stretching endlessly.
"Do you think we can really make this work?" she asked.
Jason looked at her. "I don't know what forever looks like. But I know what never feels like."
She frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"
He took her hand. "Never giving up. Never letting fear decide. Never letting go of the one thing that feels real."
Her throat tightened. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not," he said. "But you're worth the fight."
Georgia's smile trembled. "Then fight for me."
"I already am."
They spent the next days like borrowed time — mornings in the studio, afternoons walking along the beach, nights filled with laughter and unspoken promises.
Jason introduced her to Valerie and the team. Georgia watched him shine — confident but humble, alive in his element.
Valerie pulled her aside one afternoon.
"You're Georgia, right?"
"Yes."
Valerie smiled. "I've heard a lot about you. You're the muse behind his music."
Georgia blushed. "I don't know about that."
"Oh, trust me," Valerie said. "Every song he writes sounds like he's trying to get back home."
That evening, Jason played her the finished version of Never, the song they wrote together.
When it ended, Georgia just sat there, tears spilling silently.
"It's beautiful," she said. "It feels like us."
Jason smiled. "That's because it is us."
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Stay a little longer, G."
She hesitated. "I can't. The gallery opens next week. I have to go back."
He nodded slowly. "Then promise me one thing."
"What?"
"That you'll wait for me to come home. For good this time."
She looked into his eyes and saw the same boy she'd fallen for — scared, hopeful, real.
"I'll wait," she whispered.
At the airport, when it was time for her to leave, he kissed her forehead and said, "This time, I'm the one chasing you."
She smiled. "Then don't take too long."
He grinned. "Never."
Back home, Georgia's gallery opening was a quiet triumph.
Her paintings told their story — the dark beginnings, the storms, the breaking light.
And in the center of the exhibition stood one final piece — a canvas bathed in gold and pale blue, titled "Never."
People asked what it meant.
She just smiled and said, "It's about the kind of love that doesn't quit — even when it breaks."
Weeks later, Jason's debut album was released.
It was titled Never.
The final track — the one they wrote together — was dedicated simply:
> For G. For the light that stayed.
When he returned home a month later, she was waiting by the bridge where it all began.
The city glowed around them, reflections dancing on the water.
Jason walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and whispered, "Told you I'd find my way back."
She turned, eyes shining. "Welcome home."
And when their lips met, it wasn't the desperate kiss of two people trying to fix what was broken.
It was the quiet, steady promise of two souls who finally understood what never truly meant.