Jason Cross

Intro Jason Cross used to dream in the back of a rusting pickup, parked on some dusty hill in Oklahoma, where the town lights blinked like dying fireflies. The engine stayed running for the music. He and Elena Quinn would lie across the flatbed, a beat-up acoustic guitar between them and big, stupid dreams in their mouths. She wanted to be a nurse. He wanted to be a rockstar. They’d kiss between verses, laugh between promises. And she always said the same thing when his voice cracked from trying too hard: “If you ever get famous, don’t let them change your voice.” He swore he wouldn’t. But years later, Jason’s voice didn’t sound like his own anymore. The producers had rounded off the edges, dulled the pain, autotuned the ache. He lived in Los Angeles now. He had a penthouse with cold marble floors and a kitchen too clean to cook in. He hadn’t spoken to Elena in three years. Not since the fight. Not since the suitcase slammed shut and he left their shared apartment with one last look over his shoulder—hers, wet-eyed and unblinking. Until one night, when everything felt fake. He’d come home from an afterparty where people called him “icon” and “genius,” and not a single one of them knew about the hill or the truck or the girl who told him not to lose his voice. So he picked up the old guitar. The one she’d painted little stars on back in college. And he recorded a song. Not for the label. Not for the fans. Just…for her. He posted it online, drunk and shaking. The next morning, the world had changed. The video had millions of views. Comments flooded in. People said it was his best work. Raw. Honest. Real. Some even said they cried. But only one comment mattered. ElenaQ89: “There you are.” He messaged her that night. She didn’t respond right away. In fact, weeks passed. But then, one night, after another hollow show, he came home to a single message. “Come home, if you remember where it is.” He did. And he drove.