WebNovels

Chapter 21 - Ch 21: The Space Between Us

The night was quiet, but not peaceful.The city's hum below Jason's apartment window was a restless kind of silence — the kind that buzzed beneath your ribs and refused to let you sleep.

Georgia was sitting at the edge of the bed, her knees drawn close, a paperback novel open but unread. Jason sat across the room, guitar in hand, scribbling something in a notebook. The melody he hummed had been looping for hours — soft, hypnotic, but incomplete.

She watched him, her eyes tracing the curve of his shoulders, the way he leaned forward when he was lost in thought. It wasn't the same Jason she'd met two years ago — the boy with tired eyes and nothing to lose. This Jason had become a name whispered in underground music scenes, his songs spreading like wildfire across social platforms.

And Georgia — once the center of his lyrics — now felt like the silence between his verses.

"Babe," she said finally, her voice gentle but breaking the rhythm, "you've been at it since morning."

Jason didn't look up. "Just trying to get this bridge right. It's… almost there."

Almost there.

Those two words had become their life.

Almost done with this song.

Almost free for dinner.

Almost the same as before.

She smiled faintly and closed her book, setting it aside. "You said you'd rest today."

"I know. I just—this one matters." He strummed a soft chord, his voice low. "The label wants the single finished by Friday."

Georgia sighed and stood, wrapping her robe tighter. "The label wants, the fans want… What about what you want?"

He paused. His fingers stopped moving. "This is what I want."

"No," she said, softer now. "This is what you think you need."

The words hung there. Jason looked at her finally, eyes shadowed but still full of that unspoken fire. "You know I'm doing this for us."

Georgia bit her lip. "But you're not with us anymore."

Later that night, the argument had dissolved into silence. Jason had stayed in the studio, and Georgia had fallen asleep on the couch.

When he came out, hours later, the faint glow of dawn had just begun to paint the windows.

He stood there, watching her sleep — her hand curled near her face, her hair messy and free.

Something inside him ached. He wanted to touch her, to pull her close, to say that he was sorry, that he was just scared of losing what they'd built.

But his fear always sounded like ambition.

And his love always looked like absence.

The days that followed blurred into deadlines, phone calls, and interviews. Georgia started spending more time at the café down the street, sketching designs for her own project — a small clothing line she'd been dreaming about for months.

At first, Jason encouraged her. But as the studio hours grew longer, their conversations became shorter.

She'd show him new designs; he'd nod, distracted.

He'd talk about a new track; she'd smile, but not really hear the words.

Love wasn't loud anymore.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

One night, as rain lashed against the windows, Georgia came home to find Jason on a call.

He was laughing — that easy, disarming laugh she had fallen for — and it wasn't for her.

It was with Leah, his new producer.

"…yeah, you got it. That harmony was perfect. We should lay down the final tomorrow," Jason said, his voice low, intimate.

He didn't notice Georgia standing at the doorway, her keys trembling in her hand.

Leah.

The girl who'd been calling him at midnight "for creative input."

The one who posted behind-the-scenes photos with captions like "making magic with the best."

Georgia waited until he hung up.

"Long day?" she asked, trying to keep her tone steady.

He turned, startled, smiling the way he used to when she surprised him. "Hey. Yeah, sorry, just wrapping things up."

She nodded slowly. "You seem… happy. It's good."

"Yeah, Leah's really talented," he said. "She gets it, you know? The sound, the feeling."

Something inside her cracked, so small it almost didn't make a sound.

"Yeah," she whispered. "She must."

That night, she didn't sleep beside him.

She stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to his even breaths.

And for the first time, she felt like a guest in their home.

Two weeks later, the single dropped.

It was everywhere — the radio, playlists, music blogs.

It was called "Never Again."

People said it was Jason's most personal work — raw, emotional, heartbreakingly beautiful.

Georgia listened to it once.

It wasn't about her.

Not anymore.

The breaking point came quietly, on a Sunday morning.

She'd made breakfast — his favorite, even — and waited for him to come out of his studio.

When he did, she saw it in his face: that distracted glow, the one that said he was somewhere else, living in melodies and applause.

"I'm heading to the studio," he said, grabbing his jacket.

"Jason," she said, "can we talk?"

He froze, sighed, then turned. "Can it wait? I'm really late—"

"No, it can't." Her voice shook. "Because it's always waiting."

He blinked, confused. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "Maybe that's the problem. I don't know who we are anymore. I don't know where I fit between your songs, or if I still do."

He stepped closer. "Don't say that."

"Then show me something that says otherwise."

He looked helpless — not because he didn't love her, but because he didn't know how to stop chasing the noise long enough to prove it.

"I'm doing this for us," he whispered again.

She smiled sadly. "But you're losing me in the process."

She packed her things that night.

Not because she didn't love him — but because love shouldn't be this lonely.

When Jason came home, the apartment was half-empty. Her note sat on the counter, written in the same looping handwriting that used to fill his notebooks with lyrics.

"I believe in your music. I just wish you believed in us more.

Maybe someday you'll find me again — not in your songs, but in the silence between them.

— G."

Jason stood there, his breath uneven, the note trembling in his hand.

He sat down on the couch and stared at the city lights — the same ones that once felt like possibility.

Now, they looked like regret.

The phone buzzed — a message from Leah.

He turned it off without reading.

For the first time in a long time, Jason didn't reach for his guitar.

He reached for the silence Georgia had left behind.

And it was deafening.

That night, he walked through the rain, no destination — just streets, puddles, neon reflections, and the hollow sound of his footsteps.

Every corner reminded him of her — the café where she'd sketch, the park bench where they used to sit and dream.

He passed by the mural they'd painted together last summer — "Love Lives Here" — faded now, cracked and weather-worn.

He stopped, staring at it through the rain.

His hand brushed against the wall, tracing the ghost of her handwriting beneath the paint.

For the first time in years, Jason felt something stronger than ambition.

He felt loss.

And it terrified him.

When he returned home, the apartment was still.

He sat at the piano — not the guitar, not the studio — and pressed a single note.

It lingered.

He pressed another.

Then another.

A melody began to form — soft, fragile, different.

Not for an audience. Not for the label.

Just for her.

And maybe, for himself.

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