The city had its own rhythm — a heartbeat buried under the noise.
Jason used to tune it out, but lately, every sound reminded him of her: Georgia's laughter in the splash of rain, her voice in the hum of traffic, her light in the reflections of passing cars.
He'd been walking everywhere lately, choosing the long routes, avoiding the quiet corners that used to feel like home. There was something about movement that made grief easier to carry — like it stayed one step behind if you just kept going.
This morning, though, he wasn't running from it. He was heading straight toward something — someone.
The art school looked like a forgotten cathedral painted in graffiti. The walls were alive with color, rebellion, and emotion. Jason hesitated at the entrance, feeling out of place with his dark hoodie and quiet eyes.
Georgia had invited him to see her studio.
He hadn't told anyone. Not Eli, not even his reflection. It felt too personal, too sacred.
He walked through the hallway lined with sculptures and canvases until he reached the last door. It was open.
Georgia stood by the window, hair pulled into a messy bun, streaks of paint on her forearm. She was barefoot, standing before a half-finished painting — a sea of gray with a streak of gold cutting through it like light fighting its way in.
Jason paused in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt.
She turned, smiled, and suddenly the room felt like sunlight.
"You came," she said softly.
"I said I would."
"Yeah, but people say a lot of things. Showing up is rarer."
He stepped inside. The smell of turpentine, coffee, and rainwater filled the air.
"What are you working on?" he asked.
She wiped her brush on her apron and sighed. "It's supposed to be about healing. But I keep ruining it."
He studied the canvas. "It looks like a storm learning to stop hurting itself."
She blinked, surprised. "That's exactly what I wanted it to be."
Jason smiled faintly. "Then you didn't ruin it."
They sat by the window, the city buzzing below them. Georgia offered him a cup of coffee — instant, bitter, imperfect — but somehow it tasted better than anything else.
He noticed a scar on her wrist when she handed it to him. She didn't hide it, and he didn't ask. But his eyes lingered, a quiet ache in his chest.
"Do you ever feel," she began slowly, "like you're just pretending to be okay until the world stops watching?"
Jason looked out the window. "Every day."
They sat in silence, letting that truth settle between them like dust in sunlight.
Georgia reached for her sketchbook and flipped through the pages. "I've been drawing you a lot," she admitted. "Hope that's not creepy."
He laughed softly. "Depends. How do I look?"
"Haunted," she said with a smile. "But getting better."
Jason exhaled through his nose, half a laugh, half something else. "You make me sound like a recovery project."
"You're not," she said quietly. "You're just… unfinished."
He helped her clean up the studio. Brushes in jars, canvases stacked against the wall, paint smudges everywhere — it was chaos, but beautiful chaos.
As they worked, Georgia hummed. The melody was soft, aimless, like a whisper. Jason stopped mid-motion, recognizing it — it was Never.
"You're humming my song," he said, almost disbelieving.
She blushed. "It's stuck in my head. Is that bad?"
"No," he said, smiling. "It's kind of amazing."
He reached for the guitar she had leaning against the wall. "You mind?"
She shook her head.
He strummed softly, matching her hum. The sound filled the small studio — fragile, real, alive.
Georgia sat on the floor, knees drawn up, listening. Jason's voice came next — low and raw, a sound that carried everything he couldn't say.
When he finished, she whispered, "That song… it's not about her anymore, is it?"
Jason looked down at the guitar. "No," he said. "It's about what comes after."
She smiled gently. "Then sing it again."
And he did.
This time, when he sang, the gold in her painting looked like it was glowing.
They spent the afternoon together, not speaking much — just painting, playing, existing. Sometimes the most healing moments are the ones filled with quiet.
But as dusk crept in, a shadow passed through the window — a reminder that peace is never permanent.
Georgia's phone buzzed on the table. She froze when she saw the name.
Jason noticed. "Everything okay?"
"It's my dad," she said, voice thin. "He's in one of his moods again."
Jason nodded slowly. He didn't pry, but she kept talking anyway, the words spilling like paint from an overfilled brush.
"He's been trying to stay sober," she said. "But it doesn't last. When he drinks, he calls and says things he forgets the next morning. Things that break me a little more every time."
Jason's chest tightened. "You don't deserve that."
Georgia gave a hollow laugh. "Maybe not. But you can't unlove someone just because they hurt you."
He understood that too well. "Yeah," he whispered. "You can't."
The silence that followed was heavy but honest. They weren't two people trying to fix each other — they were two people learning how to hold broken things gently.
When she walked him to the door, Jason hesitated. "You want me to stay? Just in case he calls again?"
She looked up at him, eyes tired but soft. "No. But thank you for asking."
He nodded and turned to leave, but her voice stopped him.
"Jason."
He turned.
She stepped closer, so close he could feel her breath against his collar. "If you ever get lost again… come here. Even if I'm not painting. Just— come."
He swallowed hard. "I will."
Her fingers brushed his sleeve — a touch so small, yet it felt like a promise written beneath the skin.
That night, Jason couldn't sleep.
He sat by his desk, listening to the city breathe outside. Then, he began to write — not music this time, but words. A letter. Not to Mara, not to Georgia, but to the version of himself who'd stopped believing in tomorrow.
> You're still here.
You still feel.
That means you haven't lost.
Not yet.
He folded the note and tucked it inside his songbook.
Outside, thunder rolled softly in the distance — not a storm, just an echo of one passing away.
Meanwhile, Georgia sat on her bed, phone silent beside her.
She didn't call her father back. Instead, she opened a fresh page in her sketchbook and began to draw a boy standing in the rain, holding a cracked guitar, light spilling from the strings.
She titled it, The Song Beneath the Skin.
When she was done, she whispered to herself, "He's going to be okay."
She didn't know if she meant Jason or herself.
Maybe both.
A week passed like a slow melody — simple, uncertain, full of pauses.
Jason kept writing; Georgia kept painting. They texted daily, small things: a lyric, a doodle, a photo of coffee mugs side by side.
Each message was a heartbeat.
Neither of them called it love yet, but it was growing — quietly, honestly, like dawn behind closed curtains.
One evening, Jason received a call from a producer who'd discovered Never online. They wanted to feature him in a small showcase — his first live performance.
It terrified him.
He almost said no. Then he thought of Georgia — how she painted storms and called them healing.
He said yes.
When he hung up, his hands trembled. He texted her:
> Jason: Got invited to perform at Blue Ember next Friday.
Georgia: That's huge! Are you nervous?
Jason: Terrified.
Georgia: Good. That means it matters.
Jason: Will you come?
Georgia: Try and stop me.
Jason smiled at the screen.
For the first time in years, he wasn't afraid of being seen.