The apartment was quiet again.
Jason had been gone for almost three weeks — the longest since their reunion.
At first, Georgia told herself it was temporary, just part of the cycle.
He'd text her at odd hours, small messages like "Miss you" or "Wish you were here."
But soon, even those stopped coming as often.
The world had reclaimed him — the bright lights, the late interviews, the screaming crowds.
And though she had promised herself she'd never stand in the way of his dreams, Georgia couldn't shake the growing emptiness that followed her around like a shadow.
She started painting again, but her art looked different now.
Where her past work had color — blues, golds, and soft pastels — her new canvases were grayscale, as though she had drained them of life.
Her friends noticed.
"Are you okay?" Elise asked one afternoon when she stopped by.
Georgia smiled faintly. "Just tired."
"You've been tired for weeks."
Georgia dipped her brush, not meeting her eyes. "Maybe that's just who I am now."
Elise frowned. "You can tell me if it's about Jason."
Georgia hesitated. Then, softly, "He's not the problem. He's just… everywhere else."
Jason, on the other hand, was drowning in noise.
Everywhere he went, cameras flashed, hands reached out, people called his name.
It should have felt like victory.
Instead, it felt hollow.
Every time he walked off stage, he thought of the quiet apartment, the way Georgia used to fall asleep with her head on his shoulder.
He'd scroll through her messages between interviews, typing out replies he never sent.
He didn't want to admit it — not to Valerie, not to himself — but he missed her more than he missed peace.
One night, after a performance in Chicago, Jason stood on the hotel balcony, staring at the lights below.
His phone buzzed. It was Valerie.
"Great show tonight," she said. "The reviews are glowing. You're trending again."
"Thanks," he muttered.
"You sound thrilled."
He laughed weakly. "Just tired."
"You always say that," she teased. Then her tone softened. "You thinking about her?"
Jason didn't answer right away. "Yeah. Every day."
Valerie sighed. "You two are impossible. Maybe that's what makes it work."
"Or what breaks it," he whispered.
Georgia stopped checking her phone after the first week.
It hurt too much to stare at unanswered messages — to see "Read" and nothing else.
So she poured herself into her work.
When the local gallery reached out for a solo showcase, she almost said no.
But something inside her — maybe pride, maybe pain — said yes instead.
She named the collection "Falling Stars."
Each painting told a different version of loss — a hand reaching for light, a figure dissolving into the horizon, two silhouettes standing apart beneath the same sky.
When Elise saw it, she whispered, "It's beautiful. Tragic, but beautiful."
Georgia smiled. "It's honest."
Jason saw the announcement online.
A headline read:
> Georgia Lively's New Exhibit 'Falling Stars' Opens Friday.
He stared at the article for a long time.
She hadn't told him.
For the first time in months, he booked a flight home without telling his manager.
The night of the exhibit, the gallery was filled with people — artists, journalists, collectors.
Georgia wore a black satin dress, her hair in soft waves, her expression calm but distant.
When Jason arrived, the air shifted.
Heads turned. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
She saw him from across the room — tall, disheveled, eyes searching.
For a moment, the noise fell away.
He approached slowly, almost uncertainly.
"Hey," he said quietly.
She smiled faintly. "Hey."
"You didn't tell me about this."
"I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I didn't know I needed an invitation."
"You never do," she said softly.
There was a pause. Then she gestured to the wall behind her.
"This one's called Constellations."
He looked at it — a swirl of dark colors, two blurred shapes reaching toward a faint star.
"It's us," he said quietly.
Georgia's eyes flickered. "Maybe."
"Or maybe it's what we used to be," he added.
She didn't argue.
They slipped away from the crowd after that, stepping onto the balcony overlooking the city.
The night air was cold, sharp, alive with distant traffic.
Jason leaned against the railing. "You've been busy."
"So have you."
"I've missed you."
Georgia's eyes softened, but her voice stayed steady. "I know."
He hesitated. "That's it?"
"What do you want me to say, Jason? That everything's fine? That I haven't been breaking apart waiting for your name to light up my phone?"
His face fell. "G, I—"
She shook her head. "Don't apologize. You warned me who you were. I just thought maybe love could make you stay."
"I did stay. I came back."
"For tonight."
Her words stung.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said.
"I know. You just didn't mean to love me forever either."
For a moment, neither spoke. The city hummed around them.
Finally, Jason whispered, "Do you still love me?"
Georgia's lips parted. "That's the problem, Jason. I never stopped."
He stepped closer. "Then don't give up on us."
She looked up at him, tears glimmering. "I'm not giving up. I'm letting go."
Inside, someone called her name.
The gallery owner, smiling proudly, waved her over.
She turned back to Jason, her expression torn between duty and desire.
"I have to go," she said.
"Georgia—"
"Please," she whispered. "Don't make this harder."
He nodded slowly, defeated. "You deserve everything, G. The world, the stars — all of it."
She gave a small, trembling smile. "I don't want the stars, Jason. I just wanted you."
And then she walked away.
The next morning, Jason sat in the airport, watching planes lift into the gray dawn.
His guitar case rested beside him, unopened.
He replayed every moment from the night before — her voice, her eyes, the final goodbye.
For the first time, the music in his head was silent.
When his flight was called, he didn't move.
He stayed there until the sun came up — until the world started to buzz with life again — and then he stood, turned around, and went home.
Georgia's exhibit was a success.
Critics called it "haunting, heartbreak in color."
She smiled at the praise, but it felt distant, hollow.
When she got home that night, the apartment felt too quiet.
She walked into the studio and froze.
On her easel sat a canvas she hadn't touched — the one she'd left blank weeks ago.
But now, a message was scrawled across it in Jason's handwriting:
> For every song that brought me to you,
For every silence that pulled me away,
I'll find my way home.
— J.
She sank to the floor, tears falling freely.
Days passed. Jason canceled the remainder of his tour.
He didn't tell anyone why — not Valerie, not the press.
Instead, he started writing again.
Not for charts, not for fans — for her.
Every song was about a girl who taught him what "never" really meant.
Not a promise of perfection, but a promise to keep trying — even when it hurt.
Weeks later, Georgia received a package.
Inside was a vinyl record, no label, no note.
Just a title: "Falling Stars."
She placed it on the turntable.
Jason's voice filled the room — raw, unpolished, aching.
> If I fall again, will you catch my name?
Or will I vanish like the stars we used to claim?
I'm still here, under the same sky,
Learning how to love you in goodbye.
By the time the song ended, Georgia was sobbing.
She whispered to the empty room, "I never stopped loving you either."
That night, she painted again — not in black, but in gold and blue.
A sky full of stars, each one falling, but never fading.
Because maybe, she thought, falling isn't the end.
Maybe it's just another way of finding where you belong.