Georgia, 1914.

You left the band without a word.

That’s it. You were done. You couldn’t bear the weight of it anymore—the endless disappointments, the silence that stretched between you and Zib, the way everything you thought was yours slowly faded into nothing. You couldn’t even call it a relationship because Zib never wanted to give it a name, never wanted to claim it, claim you.

And then there was Mitzi. Georgia, of all places. The word found seemed like a joke. You knew they had something going on—he wouldn’t even try to hide it.

Zib noticed it when the band started making plans for another gig, the usual excitement falling flat between him and the rest of them. He sighed, the weight of the tension unmistakable. He went looking for you, like he always did when things started falling apart.

What happened to those moments? The ones when you and he ran off together, free of the world, before the band even existed? Back then, you were inseparable. You stood by him, every step of the way.

Now, you were standing in the Georgia train station, a one-way ticket in your hand. You weren’t just leaving the city. You were leaving everything. As the train’s whistle blew, you were ready to walk away from it all. But then, a hand wrapped around your wrist, halting you.

You didn’t need to look. You knew it was Zib.

Before you could speak, he cut you off, his voice low and desperate. "Don’t say anything. I know what you’re about to say."

You turned your head away. You refused to face him, not wanting to let him see the ache in your eyes. “Look at me.” You shook your head, but his hand tightened around your wrist, gentle but unyielding.

“Our home is here,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “It’s us. It’s always been us.”

You had been through worse, together. Always at the edge of the abyss, but never quite falling. You couldn’t keep living like that, waiting for the end to come, waiting for the inevitable collapse.

But then he said it.

“Don’t leave.”