Miles of Missing You
Becky’s POV
The plane landed onto Heathrow’s runway, and Becky’s stomach flipped—jet lag sinking in as she hauled her suitcase through the chaos. Two months at Essex University’s law internship loomed, and her English grandparents’ Chelmsford cottage was her first stop. Grandma Edith swooped in, all lavender and steel, “Rebecca, you’re a wisp—biscuits and tea, now, no nonsense!” Grandpa George grunted, “Toughen up, girl—Brits don’t bend. You’ll ace it.” She flashed a tight grin, Freen’s tulip ring digging into her finger, but the silence hit hard—no Freen, no Fluffy, no Bonbon.
The cottage was warm—faded curtains, a kettle growling—but it felt like a shell without Freen’s mess. She dumped her bag, propped Freen’s milk tea keychain on the nightstand, and fired off a text: “Landed. Miss you bad, trouble.” Freen’s reply trickled in—“Miss you too, angel. Fluffy’s a wreck”—and Becky’s throat knotted. She hit record, voice shaky: “Tell Fluffy I’ll be back. Love you.”
The internship was a beast—Essex Uni’s law offices, files swallowing her desk, mentors barking like strays. She choked down weak tea—“No boba, Grandma, I’m dying”—and Grandpa’s brisk “Keep going, lass” slid off her. She snapped a pic of a stale biscuit, texting Freen: “Your dumplings would fix me—remember that kitchen fire?” Freen’s reply dropped late—a blurry Fluffy paw with “He’s glued to me. I’d stuff you better than those dumplings—wink. Love you.” Becky choked on a laugh, heat flashing through her—Freen, filthy as ever. She shot back, “Stuff me raw? Miss that fire.” The lag stung, but she savored the bite.
Krit, a Thai-Brit intern, pegged her quick. “Becky from IDF? You’re a star!” he grinned, accent a Bangkok-London tangle. Lanky, chill, he slid pad kra pao her way at lunch, “This would save your taste buds.” They clicked—fast, easy, a taste of home. She kept Freen locked down—no need to spill yet. They were low-key, always had been, and Krit was new; she wasn’t cracking open her life. He asked about Thailand over khao soi, “Miss it much?” She dodged, “Yeah—food, people, the usual.” He smirked, “Bet they’re missing you.” His warmth tugged her toward Freen, but she zipped it—cause for her he’s just a friend, nothing more.
Video calls were her lifeline—1 a.m., Freen’s face flickered on, shadows under her eyes. “You’re shot, babe,” Freen jabbed, voice rough. Becky smirked, propped on her desk, “Says you. These files—I’d kill for your couch.” She swung the phone—paper hell, cold tea—“Miss that park, Fluffy tumbling.” Freen’s laugh hitched, “Miss your nagging. England rough?” Becky’s voice dropped, “Yeah—feels wrong without you.” Freen’s quick blink froze onscreen, the miles a gut punch.
Freen’s POV
Freen jolted awake—Fluffy’s nose jabbing her cheek, the bed a cold sprawl. Mama Nun’s house was her hideout, Bonbon stuck with the Armstrongs. “Just us, fluffa?” she muttered, ruffling his ears as he whined. Mama Nun stormed in, “Eat, Freen—tom yum, now!” but the quiet slammed her—no Becky.
Brand shoots chewed her up—harsh lights, fake grins. She swung by Becky’s, Bonbon’s wobbly tackle a bittersweet jab. “Miss her too?” she mumbled, snapping a pic with “He’s hogging your picnic spot.” Nam crashed a shoot, “You’re a zombie, Freen—where’s your bite?” Heng smirked, “Lost it with Nong Becky.” She snapped, “I’m good,” but Saint’s low “Take it easy, Nong” cracked her. She was fraying.
A street performer’s guitar wailed on her walk—some Thai ballad, all longing—and it ripped her raw; every note was Becky. A tiny kitten darted past—playful, her angel’s match—and her breath snagged. “You’d scoop this one up,” she rasped, texting the pic with “Wish we were fighting over it.” Becky’s late “Adorable—miss you so much” carved into her. She recorded, voice frayed: “Fluffy’s hogging your spot—I’m losing it without you. Love you.”
Calls were her grip—Becky’s bleary eyes at odd hours, poking her light. “Soup’s your world, huh?” Becky grinned, midnight her time. “And you’re law’s chew toy. Still my trouble?” Freen’s huff shook, “Yeah—need your chaos, those late talks.” Becky’s “It’s off without you” landed heavy, silence a chokehold.
Then Becky texted about Krit—“This intern, Thai-Brit, knows our works. Gave me Pad thai today.” Freen’s gut flipped, jealousy a low sting—sharp, quick. Krit—feeding Becky, sharing her roots, stepping where she couldn’t. She pictured him—too smooth, too close—and it pricked, a possessive twitch. Could he be a problem? Some slick guy worming in? Becky was hers, her rock, and this shadow itched. She shook it off—nah, she knew her place, carved deep in Becky’s life, her heart. No contest. “Nice… good you’ve got that,” voice a touch tight. Becky, blind, rolled on, “He’s chill—feels like home a bit.” Freen’s “Cool, tua” was steady, the sting fading to a hum she wouldn’t voice.
Their connection crackled—Becky sent a pic of Krit’s khao soi, “Yours beats it”—Freen fired back a shot of Fluffy gnawing Bonbon’s ear, “These brats miss you—park days.” Voice messages hit like knives—Becky’s “I’m falling apart—love you”—Freen’s “Shoot’s hell—need you bad. Love you.” They patched together a playlist—gritty Thai rock, that sweaty park beat—Becky texting, “This is my rope,” Freen scribbling a sketch of them tangled with the dogs, “Us, messed up and hot.” Becky’s reply—a sloppy heart with a bite mark—“Can’t wait to wreck you”—set Freen’s pulse racing.
One night, Becky sent a clip—“Tea’s trash, trouble,” sipping slow, shirt slipping off one shoulder. Freen smirked, recording at dawn—“Jasmine’s dull—rather taste you,” licking her lips, eyes dark—their filthy little game. Next call, Becky sprawled over files, “I’m dying here—need your hands, not this crap,” voice low and rough. Freen, gripping Fluffy, grinned wicked, “Hands? I’d pin you first—miss that squirm.” Becky’s laugh broke, “Pin me hard—I’d beg for it.” The line crackled, heat flaring, but then her signal dropped—“Freen? Shit—”—and the screen went black.
Freen stared at the dead call, Fluffy whining at her feet, the tease souring fast. Becky’s last “beg for it” looped in her head, but the silence screamed louder—Krit’s shadow flickered, a nagging itch, though she knew she owned Becky’s heart. Still, the miles, the ache, gnawed deeper. She muttered, “Come back already,” voice splintering, no count to cling to, just a hollow buzz of want and dread.