They were almost ready. I stepped back, looking at the paintings. Not bad, I thought, but I realized—my muse was gone.

And I knew why. Ever since I came, it was a little hard to adjust—adjust to life here, and, most of all, adjust to life without—him.

Oh, I kept his picture up on my mantle to remind myself—remind myself of the promise we'd made, but I had to admit—every once in a while, I cried myself to sleep. And my arms—my arms felt so empty—without someone to fill them! And my lips—my lips kept kissing air!

Just to take my mind off him, I gave the paintings a finishing touch—then went to the gallery. I was so excited—I had a feeling it would be my best show yet!

I whistled as I hung each painting, but I had the strangest feeling—as if I wasn't alone. It was only when I found my eyes covered that my suspicions were confirmed.

"Guess who," came the voice—a vaguely familiar voice, though I knew—it couldn't be him.

I thought for a minute, wondering who it might be, but I had to admit—I was clueless! "I give up," I laughed.

Turning around, I was pleasantly surprised—no, shocked—by who I saw. For there—standing in front of me—was Emmett!

"This is a surprise," I laughed, as we exchanged hugs. "What brings you here?"

"Just needed a break from Pittsburgh," he said, "and when I saw you were setting up, I thought I'd pop in."

"So," I said, asking the inevitable, "how are things back home?"

He filled me in, and I was glad to know everyone was well. One name didn't come up, though, which surprised me. "Uh, Emmett?" I said. "Aren't you forgetting someone? What about—"

"Oh, him," Emmett replied, suddenly turning serious. "Justin, I'm afraid he's in a deep depression—and not even I can help him."

My eyes filled with tears. Of course, I thought. I was his Sunshine—and with me gone, I had a feeling something like this might happen. "Is—is there anything I can do?"

He didn't answer, but instead whipped out his cell phone. "Michael, it's me," he said. "Is—is he in any mood to talk?"

After a few minutes, he handed me the cell. "See what you can do," he said.

"Hello?"

"Sunshine?" came the voice I'd wanted to hear. "Is—is it really you?" He sounded so broken, I couldn't tell whether he was crying—or had been crying.

"Yes, Brian," I replied, as my eyes filled with tears. "Are—are you all right?"

"Other than missing you," was the reply, "I—I guess so."

"I've got a show coming up," I suggested, "if you'd like to come in."

"Not good enough," was the answer. "I want you—I want you to come—and stay."

People started coming in at that moment. "I've got to go," I said. "The show's about to start."

"I love you," were Brian's last words, before racking sobs made conversation impossible.

"I love you, too," I whispered, before hanging up.

"Thanks," I told Emmett, handing the cell phone back.

"Anytime," he said, putting it in his pocket. "It was so good to see you," he said, giving me one last hug.

"It was good to see you, too," I replied, returning the hug. "And Emmett?"

"Yes, Justin?"

"Tell him—tell him I'll be home soon."

"Sure thing, Justin."

As he left, my gaze fell upon one of my paintings. It was of Brian and me, outside Babylon, just after the explosion. I was locked in his embrace, and from his expression, I knew—it was the first time he was actually able to admit he loved me.

It was the only painting without a title, I realized. Carefully making out the card, I slipped it in the holder provided, then stepped back. It was a perfect description, I thought:

Love Everlasting.