Chapter 7: Slow Burn

The first few weeks were the hardest.

After Becky's first burst of raw emotion, the call where she cracked open her heart and let her voice tremble with pain, Freen tried. She really tried.

She called more often, sent sweet messages throughout the day, and tried to make Becky understand—it's not just her, but it's just life right now. They were both stretched too thin. When Freen was free, Becky was buried under internship hours and deadlines. And when Becky finally crawled into bed early for once, phone in hand, heart soft with hope—Freen was either still on set or too exhausted to talk.

They kept missing each other like ships in the dark. Like two clocks ticking out of sync.

And somehow, Becky understood. She really did. She didn't want to be the clingy girlfriend. She didn't want to guilt Freen out of something she had worked so hard for. But that understanding came at a cost.

She learned how to swallow her hurt.

She learned how to say, "It's okay, love. I get it," even when her throat tightened and her eyes burned.

They both hoped—prayed, really—that these three months would pass quickly. That when the clocks aligned again, they would still know how to love each other in the same rhythm.

But slowly, their longing changed their love.

The love that once felt like fire red, consuming, urgent—was now turning cold blue. Quiet. Distant.

Like smoke curling from a candle after the flame had died.

Becky started checking her phone less with hope and more with habit. The excitement she once felt whenever Freen's name lit up her screen had dulled into something mechanical. A sigh, a glance, a forced smile.

Maybe she's sleeping.

Maybe she's still filming.

Maybe she is just tired.

She stopped staying up late waiting for a call that always came too late—or not at all. She stopped staring at their old selfies together before bed. She stopped imagining what Freen smelled like. What her voice would sound like in her ear if she just walked through the door again.

She learned to live in silence, even when it hurt.

Now, a month had gone by.

And their conversations had become painfully predictable.

BB: Morning, love. How was your shoot?

Baby: Hey, baby. Just wrapped up a long day. You?

BB: Exhausted. Internship is draining me.

Baby: You got this. I believe in you. I love you.

BB: Love you too.

There was no softness left in the words. No pause between messages. Just statements—dutiful, simple, rehearsed. Words that used to feel like a warm hug now passed between them like receipts—proof that they still cared, even if neither could feel it anymore.

They still sent photos.

Becky, out of habit, sent silly selfies—pouting, pulling faces, trying to make Freen laugh. Trying to be the same girl who once danced around their apartment with socks on her hands, just to cheer Freen up during her modeling slumps.

Freen, on the other hand, sent polished shots: the sky painted in gold during golden hour. A perfect breakfast tray. The curve of the moon outside her hotel room. Her shadow on a studio wall.

Artistic. Beautiful. Distant.

Just like her. Pinterest Princess.

"I swear you're a walking Pinterest board," Becky texted once, forcing herself to add a laughing emoji, even though she wasn't smiling.

Freen sent a winking emoji back. "Just keeping my feed consistent."

That was it. That was them now.

A series of updates. Carefully edited I love yous. Glimpses into lives that felt like separate movies playing on two different screens.

Becky missed the version of them that had once laughed at midnight over microwave popcorn and horror movies. The version that didn't need Pinterest skies and perfectly plated dinners to feel seen.

She missed being known—messy, tired, ridiculous Becky—and loved anyway.

And somewhere in the space between her selfies and Freen's silence, between calls that ended too soon and messages that didn't say enough...

She began to wonder—

If Freen still knew her at all.

Or worse... if Freen was slowly learning how to live without her.

One night, Becky lay flat on her back in their apartment, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun in slow, lazy circles—each turn whispering the same thing over and over.

You're alone. You're alone. You're alone.

The city buzzed faintly outside, the occasional hum of a motorbike, distant voices on the street below—but inside, there was only silence. The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that crept into your skin and sat heavy in your chest.

Everything around her felt haunted.

The faint scent of Freen's perfume still clung to the corners of the room—the one she used to spritz before going out, always saying it was "too pretty to waste," yet using it anyway because Becky liked the way it smelled on her skin.

Her books were still stacked neatly on the nightstand, just where she left them. Becky had dusted them three times that week—not because they needed it, but because it was the only time she felt close to Freen.

Her denim jacket still hung behind the door, the sleeves creased where Becky used to rest her head against her shoulder.

There were two toothbrushes in the cup by the sink.

Two mugs in the drying rack.

Two people in the story.

But Becky... Becky had never felt more alone.

Every corner of the apartment echoed with memories. But none of them reached her anymore. It was like living in a museum of what once was.

So that night—quietly, almost like she was sneaking out of her own life—she packed a bag.

Just a small one. Just a few clothes, a journal, her phone charger. She stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, looking around at all the things they once called home.

Then she left.

No note. No text. No dramatic goodbye. She just... left. Because she couldn't stay in a place that felt like a memory frozen in time.

She moved back into her parents' house, telling herself it was temporary.

A week, maybe two, she reasoned. Just enough time to breathe without feeling like she was holding her breath. Just enough time to not look at the empty side of the bed and pretend it didn't matter.

But days passed.

Then a week.

And Becky stopped thinking about moving back.

Because, in a strange and painful way, it was easier this way. If she didn't wake up in their bed, she wouldn't have to be reminded that she was waking up alone. If she wasn't surrounded by Freen's things, she wouldn't have to wrestle with the hollow ache that followed her from room to room.

And Freen?

Freen didn't notice.

Or maybe she did—but she didn't ask.

No "Hey, where are you?"No "Why aren't you home?"No "I miss you."

Just the usual texts, the same recycled affection.

Baby (Freen): "Hope you're resting tonight. You've been working too hard. Love you."

BB(becbec): "You too. Take care."

That was it. Nothing more.

Becky stared at those messages sometimes, wondering if Freen had typed them while lying in a hotel bed alone—or if someone else had been in the room, laughing, distracting her, keeping her world too full to notice what was slipping away.

The silence wasn't new anymore.

But this new kind—where she could physically disappear and not even be asked why—it hurt in a way Becky hadn't known before.

She used to believe they were each other's home.

Now, she wasn't even sure if Freen noticed she'd moved out of it

____________Whereas Freen missed Becky. God, she missed her.

But the days on set came fast, louder than her own thoughts, louder than her guilt.

Mornings started before the sun rose, the cold city air biting her cheeks as she stepped out of her hotel. Her body moved on instinct—rehearsals, blocking, lights, takes, takes, again, again—but her heart lagged behind, somewhere back in another city, curled under warm sheets in a bed that didn't belong to her anymore.

The city was beautiful—its crisp air, its pace, its newness. Everything felt different. Electric. The creative chaos on set made her feel alive in a way she hadn't felt in years. There was something addictive about this version of herself—an actress with a purpose, no longer just a face in ads or runways. Here, she was someone people listened to, someone with lines and presence and emotional weight.

She loved it. She really did.

She loved the way the director beamed after a take, how the crew clapped when she broke through an emotional scene. She loved the fast friendships that formed with her castmates—inside jokes, coffee runs, stolen naps between takes on the same worn-out couch.

And yet... beneath it all, always—was Becky.

A tether tied to her ribcage. A soft ache that followed her from dressing room to trailer to hotel room. Freen missed her warmth. The way Becky would rub her eyes with the back of her hand, always sleepy but stubborn. The way she said "you're late" with that smirk when Freen got caught up doing anything that wasn't them.

She missed the little things—Becky's shampoo scent lingering on her shirt, the sound of her typing at odd hours, the way she whispered "you did well today" when Freen didn't believe it herself.

She missed coming home.

But she wasn't home anymore. She was living her dream.

And dreams demanded sacrifice.

Freen tried. She really did. She'd text. Send voice notes. Squeeze in late-night calls, even if she could barely keep her eyes open. Even if her words slurred from exhaustion, she made sure to say "I love you" every single time. No matter what.

Because she did.

With her entire being.

Becky loved her too. She knew that. They'd been through so much. Four years of love that survived the press, the pressure, the rumors, the world trying to pull them apart. This? This was just three months.

They'd be fine.

They always were.

That's what Freen kept telling herself.

So when the calls got shorter, she chalked it up to Becky's internship. When Becky didn't send selfies as often, Freen assumed she was just tired. And when Becky stopped replying right away, Freen didn't push. She figured space was okay. They were busy women chasing big things.

But lately, there was something strange in Becky's voice. Something quiet. Cold around the edges. She still said "I love you" but it sounded practiced, like an afterthought, like a duty.

Freen noticed. Of course she noticed. But she told herself not to spiral.

She's just tired.She's just overwhelmed.We'll talk properly soon.

It wasn't until the night she asked Becky if she'd eaten, and Becky replied a full eight hours later with a single: "Yeah."That Freen felt the chill settle deeper.

She scrolled up through their chat that night, staring at all the I love yous that used to feel like fire, now reduced to polite embers.

She didn't even realize she was crying until a tear fell on her phone screen.

Where was it all going wrong?

They weren't fighting. Becky hadn't yelled. Hadn't even blamed her. And that was somehow worse.

Becky wasn't angry.

She was disappearing.

And Freen... she had been so sure of their love, so confident in the years they had built together, that she never once thought to ask—

Do you still feel held by me?Do you still feel chosen?

She thought love was enough. That knowing someone for four years meant you didn't have to check if they were slipping through your fingers.

But now, as she sat alone in her trailer under buzzing lights, phone silent in her lap, heart pounding with a quiet kind of fear—

She wondered if she'd confused familiarity with forever.

And for the first time in weeks, Freen didn't know what to say._______At the law firm, Becky worked alongside another intern named Nop. He was sharp, fast with numbers, quicker with comebacks, and annoyingly good at making himself known. From the very beginning, Becky kept her distance. She wasn't looking for new friends. She wasn't looking for anything, really. Just a way to get through the day without falling apart.

But Nop was relentless in a quiet, harmless kind of way.

"You always eat alone," he remarked one afternoon, sliding into the chair across from her at a corner café like he'd done it a hundred times before. "What, you hate people or something?"

"I don't hate people," Becky muttered, barely glancing up as she stirred the foam in her coffee. "I just don't have the energy to pretend I'm okay."

"Lucky for you, I've got enough energy for both of us," Nop said with an easy grin.

She didn't smile back. Not really. But she didn't tell him to leave either.

And just like that, he became part of her days. He never pried, never brought up the sadness that clung to her like second skin. But he noticed. He always noticed.

Some mornings, he'd hand her an extra coffee without a word, just a raised brow and a small nod like "you looked like you needed this." He'd toss sarcastic remarks over their endless workload, matching her sighs with equally dramatic groans. And when she couldn't bring herself to fake being fine, he sat beside her in silence.

"Remind me again why we chose this career?" she asked one evening, forehead pressed to the edge of her desk.

"Because we hate ourselves," Nop replied, sipping his coffee like it was medicine. "Or maybe we thought saving the world sounded noble until we realized it mostly involves paperwork and crying in bathrooms."

That made Becky laugh. Really laugh. A sound so unfamiliar, it startled her.

It wasn't the kind of laugh Freen used to pull from her—the belly-deep, whole-body kind. No, this one was tired. Quiet. A little broken.

But still... it was something.

Nop wasn't a distraction in the way she longed for. He wasn't Freen. He wasn't even trying to be. But he was there. And sometimes, being there was enough to keep her from unraveling completely.

But the worst part?

The part she could never say out loud?

As she sat there, watching Nop crack another dumb joke, sipping her too-sweet coffee and pretending her chest didn't ache—

She wished, with everything in her, that it was Freen sitting across from her instead.Freen, who used to know when to tease and when to hold her hand.Freen, who would've looked at her once and known everything she wasn't saying.

But Freen wasn't here.

And that absence echoed louder than any words could.

🎶 And I know it's long gone andThere was nothing else I could doAnd I forget about you long enoughTo forget why I needed to..... 🎶

It had been weeks since Freen and Becky had shared a real conversation.

Not the rushed voice notes. Not the tired I love yous that felt more like habits than warmth. But a real conversation—where they could hear each other breathe, laugh, fall quiet, and know that love was still there, tucked beneath exhaustion.

At first, they tried. They really did. They called whenever they could, left voice notes between shoots and court breaks. But slowly, missed calls became the routine. One of them was always too busy, or too tired, or asleep by the time the other was free. Eventually, they stopped trying.

Still, Freen held onto hope. That this was just temporary. That love could wait.

But today was different.

Today, the universe carved her a rare moment of peace—an unexpected break between scenes. The crew was buzzing around her, resetting the lights, prepping for another take, but she had time. Actual time. Enough for a real conversation.

Maybe... today she could hear Becky's voice again.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she dialed Becky's number, a quiet spark of excitement rising in her chest.

One ring.

No answer.

She frowned. Tried again.

Second ring. Third. Straight to voicemail.

Freen sighed, thumb hovering over the call button. She's probably just busy. But still, something restless stirred inside her.

She hit redial.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Back in Becky's office, her phone buzzed relentlessly, vibrating across her desk like it had something urgent to say.

Becky didn't hear it. She was locked in a tense meeting with senior attorneys, buried in case files and exhaustion, her mind far from the little rectangle lighting up with Baby on the screen.

But someone did notice.

Nop.

He glanced at the phone, blinking at the repeated calls.

And then, after a moment's hesitation, he picked up.

Freen didn't wait for a hello.

"Becbec, why aren't you picking up my call, no replies, not even a text—do you have any idea how worried I've been?" Her voice cracked at the edges, too breathless, too desperate to hide.

Silence.

Then a man's voice.

"Uh... sorry, who's this?"

Freen froze.

A man.Answering Becky's phone.His voice was calm. Casual. Too familiar.

"I called Becky," she said, voice hardening. "Becky Armstrong."

"Oh, yeah—she's in a meeting," he replied smoothly. "The phone wouldn't stop ringing, so I figured it might be something important. I'm her bestie. Want me to tell her you called?"

Bestie.

Freen's pulse quickened, chest tightening as if invisible hands were squeezing the breath from her lungs.

She had never heard of a bestie from work. Not once. Not in any of Becky's tired updates or short voice notes. She didn't know this voice. This name. This man.

"What's your name?" she asked, her voice cold now, foreign even to her own ears. "How do you know Becky?"

The man laughed lightly, as if she'd just asked the dumbest question in the world.

"I'm Nop. We work together. Law intern hell, you know? We're basically stuck here 24/7. Bestie seems fitting."

24/7.

She knew it was a figure of speech.

But that didn't matter. The damage was already done.

Because all Freen could hear was:He's with her.He knows her schedule.He's in her world now.And I'm... not.

Before her throat could form words she didn't want to say, she ended the call.

Just like that.

The silence on the other end hit her harder than any fight ever had.

Her phone slipped from her hand onto the floor, unnoticed. Around her, the studio kept moving—lights, cameras, voices calling her name. But she didn't hear any of it.

Her ears rang with that man's voice.

Bestie.

Her chest tightened. She had been so sure. So certain that Becky understood. That their love could weather anything. That trust was enough.

But now? Now she didn't know if she was still the person Becky shared her life with.

Her vision blurred.

She blinked once, and a tear slipped free.

Then another.

And another.

She stood in the middle of the set—Freen Sarocha, always composed, always calm—and for the first time in years, she didn't know how to hold herself together.

She turned away from the crew, from the lights, from the noise, and bit down hard on her lip, trying to swallow the sob that threatened to rise.

But the ache was louder.

It thundered through her chest with every heartbeat.

Because this wasn't just about a phone call.

It was the sudden, brutal realization that she might have already lost Becky.

And she hadn't even seen it coming.

_______________________________________Author Note: Sorry kha 🥲 Long-distance relationships are hard, na... especially when both people are so busy chasing their dreams 😞