Friday came dressed in nerves.
Jason hadn't performed in front of a crowd since high school, when everything he sang was meant for one person — Mara.
Now, the thought of standing on stage made his chest feel too small for his heart.
The venue, Blue Ember, was a small but intimate space tucked behind a bookstore. Exposed brick walls, dim lights, and a stage framed by old fairy lights. The kind of place where words could sound like confessions and silence could feel like applause.
He stood backstage, clutching his guitar, feeling the pulse of the room through the floor.
"Bro, you're gonna kill it," said Eli, patting his shoulder. "Don't overthink it. You've got that moody artist thing — people love it."
Jason chuckled nervously. "That's not exactly comforting."
Eli grinned. "Then think of her. The new girl. Georgia, right?"
Jason froze. "How do you—"
"You hum her name in your sleep, man," Eli teased. "It's either love or a haunting."
Jason rolled his eyes, but inside, Eli was right. Georgia had become the quiet rhythm of his days — not a replacement for Mara, but proof that love could happen again.
Still, the weight of the night pressed hard on him. What if the song wasn't enough? What if performing it out loud shattered the fragile healing he'd built?
Then, he heard laughter — soft, familiar.
He looked up, and there she was.
Georgia stood in the doorway wearing a simple black dress and a denim jacket splattered with paint. Her hair was loose, and her eyes carried the kind of warmth that could melt panic into calm.
"Hey," she said. "Thought you might need a friendly face before the storm."
Jason smiled, relief flooding through him. "You have no idea."
She stepped closer, reaching out to fix his collar. "You look like someone who's about to tell the truth."
"I am," he said quietly.
"Then don't hide," she whispered. "Let them see the real you."
And before he could reply, she took his hand — just for a second — and squeezed it. It was enough.
The lights dimmed.
Jason walked onto the stage.
Applause echoed faintly, but it all sounded distant. The world narrowed to the microphone, the wooden floor, and the steady beat of his heart.
He sat on the stool, adjusted the mic, and let his fingers find the strings.
"Hi," he said, his voice rough. "I'm Jason. This song is called Never."
The crowd quieted.
He began to play.
The first notes were fragile, trembling like raindrops on glass. His voice joined in — low, honest, breaking in all the right places. Every lyric carried a ghost, but also light.
> I kept the rain inside my chest,
Until your voice taught me to breathe again.
The silence was a home I built,
But you opened every door within…
Georgia watched from the crowd, hands pressed to her heart. She'd seen him quiet, broken, guarded — but this was different. He wasn't just performing; he was releasing something.
When he reached the chorus, the pain turned into something almost holy.
> Never say the stars forgot to shine,
They're just waiting for you to look up this time…
The room was still. Even the bartender stopped moving.
It was as if the whole city had paused to listen.
And in that silence, Jason looked up — and found Georgia's eyes.
Every note after that belonged to her.
When the song ended, there was no noise for a moment. Just breath. Then the applause came — thunderous, real, full of warmth.
Jason bowed slightly, his hands trembling. He felt weightless.
He stepped offstage, the sound of clapping still echoing behind him.
Georgia met him near the hallway.
"That was…" she began, unable to find words.
Jason smiled. "Enough?"
She nodded. "More than enough."
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I almost didn't come tonight."
"I'm glad you did," she said. "Because that wasn't just music — that was you forgiving yourself."
Jason's throat tightened. He didn't know how she always said the exact thing he needed to hear.
They stood close, the air between them warm, fragile. For a second, Jason thought about leaning in — about the taste of her name on his lips — but then Eli appeared behind him with a grin.
"Dude! You owned that stage! Everyone's talking about you!"
Georgia laughed and stepped back, her cheeks pink. Jason sighed inwardly but smiled. "Thanks, Eli."
Eli patted him on the back and disappeared toward the bar.
Georgia said, "So, now that you're famous, what's next?"
"Fame's not the goal," Jason said. "Peace is."
"Then you're closer than you think."
Later that night, they left together, walking down the quiet streets. The air was cool, the city lights soft.
They stopped at the bridge again — their place.
Jason leaned on the railing, looking at the river below. "You know," he said, "I used to think some things just don't heal. That once something breaks, it stays that way."
Georgia stood beside him. "And now?"
"Now I think maybe they don't heal the same way, but they change shape. And sometimes, what's left is stronger."
She smiled, looking up at him. "You sound like one of your lyrics."
He chuckled. "Maybe I'm finally living them."
For a long moment, they just stood there — two people who'd lost too much, finding comfort in the quiet space between them.
Then Georgia said softly, "Jason… there's something I want to tell you."
He turned to her. "What is it?"
Her lips parted, but the words didn't come. She hesitated, eyes glistening. "Not tonight," she whispered. "But soon."
Jason nodded. "Whenever you're ready."
She smiled in gratitude, and he reached for her hand. This time, she didn't pull away.
They stood there, fingers intertwined, the city glowing around them.
When Jason got home, Eli was waiting on the couch.
"You and the art girl looked cozy," he teased.
Jason grinned. "She's… different."
"Different how?"
Jason thought for a moment. "She makes the silence feel alive."
Eli raised his hands. "Man, that's poetic. I'm happy for you."
Jason sat down, still smiling. But when he looked at the wall — at the photo of Mara still taped there — something inside him shifted.
He got up, walked to the photo, and stared at it for a long moment.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For teaching me how to love — and for letting me go."
Then, with steady hands, he took it down.
He didn't throw it away. He placed it inside a drawer — not forgotten, just no longer haunting.
Meanwhile, in her dorm, Georgia couldn't sleep.
She sat by the window, the city shimmering outside. On her desk lay her phone, open to an unsent message.
> Jason, there's something I haven't told you. Something I'm afraid might change everything.
She stared at it for a long time before deleting the words.
"Not yet," she whispered to herself. "Not tonight."
Instead, she picked up her brush and began a new painting — Jason on stage, light pouring from his guitar, the word Never glowing above him like a star.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but for now, this moment was enough.
At 3:00 a.m., Jason texted her:
> Jason: Couldn't sleep. Thinking about how weird it is that rain and music sound the same when you close your eyes.
Georgia: Maybe that's because they're both ways the heart talks when it can't find words.
Jason: You're something else, you know that?
Georgia: I hope that's good.
Jason: It's everything.
Outside, the night was quiet — not empty, just waiting.
And somewhere between the heartbeat of the city and the hum of dreams, something new began to take root.
Love — quiet, patient, and real.