Chapter 11
Freen and Becky sat on the couch, wrapped in their own separate blankets, with Beetlejuice Beetlejuice playing on Freen’s laptop. The laptop rested in Freen’s lap, tilted just enough for Becky to have the perfect view. Though they were settled in their own spaces, they were both acutely aware that this was the closest they had ever been.
Becky was quietly lost in Freen’s scent—a mix of fresh soap and something uniquely her—while Freen found herself dangerously drawn to the warmth of Becky’s presence so near.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang, snapping them out of their unspoken thoughts, forcing them to focus on the movie rather than each other.
Freen paused the screen and handed Becky the laptop. "I’ll be right back," she said softly before walking off to answer the door.
As Freen retrieved their food from the delivery boy, a notification popped up on her screen—a new email from Krik.
Becky’s heart sank.
That name again.
The unsettling feeling returned, curling in her chest. She didn’t want to believe the rumors, but the truth was, she couldn’t understand why it even mattered to her so much. Why did it make her sad? Why did it make her anxious? She had no logical explanation for herself. But one thing was certain—she needed to know more.
"I’ll just ask. Just casually. No reason. Maybe… for science."
She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Freen returning with their food—pizza in one hand, Becky’s milk tea in the other.
"Here’s your milk tea, and here’s our pizza," Freen said, settling back onto the couch. She placed the laptop on her lap and handed Becky her drink while the pizza rested between them.
"P’Freen, you got an email notification earlier," Becky informed her.
"It’s fine," Freen replied, pressing play on the movie.
"But it could be important," Becky insisted.
"Nothing is as important as this," Freen muttered.
"What?!" Saro bit her tongue as her inner voice screamed in shock.
Becky searched Freen’s face, her mind fumbling with the weight of those words, but before she could fully process them, Freen quickly corrected herself.
"I mean… nothing should be this important this late at night," she said, her voice firm and clear this time.
Becky sipped her tea, but her mood remained off. That name—Krik—had flashed across the screen just minutes ago, and no matter how much she tried to push it away, it lingered.
Noticing Becky’s expression, Freen tilted her head. "I asked for 50% sugar only. It’s late at night, and who even drinks 100% sugar?" she said, as if the lack of sweetness in Becky’s tea was the real reason for her sadness.
"Oh, I like it 100%," Becky replied weakly. "Any less feels like I’m drinking water."
Freen frowned and placed a hand on Becky’s forehead, then her cheeks, then her neck, checking for a fever.
"I’m not sick, P’Freen," Becky murmured, making direct eye contact. "Just a little tired."
Sometimes, Freen’s eyes gave away nothing at all—completely unreadable. But in moments like these, when she was concerned, they spoke volumes. And that was enough to pull Becky back to color.
"Eat too," Freen said, shifting her gaze back to the screen.
A little while later, Becky began twisting and shifting, trying to find a more comfortable position on the couch as sleep started creeping in. Freen, ever observant, noticed immediately. Without a word, she reached for a few small couch pillows and placed them behind Becky’s back and the armrest to make her more comfortable.
As Becky settled into her newly cushioned space, another notification popped up on the screen.
Krik.
And just like that, Becky snapped.
"P’Freen… who is Krik?"
The question left her lips before she could stop it. She startled herself—just moments ago, she had been on the verge of falling asleep, and now she was wide awake, a bolt of electricity running through her veins.
Freen looked at her in surprise.
"I—uh, I mean, you don’t have to answer," Becky stammered, regretting her outburst.
"He’s my childhood best friend," Freen replied evenly. "And my business partner."
Her tone was deliberately neutral—calm, controlled, giving Becky nothing to grasp onto.
Freen didn’t like drama. She hated it, actually. Especially the kind where people jumped to conclusions based on rumors and let assumptions dictate their actions. And she was well aware of the whispers circulating on campus.
"Why do you ask?" Freen countered. Their conversations always worked like this—question for question.
Becky hesitated. "I saw him with you, Kade, and Nam in the canteen today. Irin mentioned he’s part of the President’s Club, so I was just curious… for, um, campus knowledge."
Freen nodded slightly, as if she had expected as much.
"And I bet you heard plenty of other things too," she said, pausing the movie and locking eyes with Becky.
This time, there was no warmth in her gaze. Just something cold. Mystic. Unreadable.
Becky swallowed. "No, I just—"
"Don’t believe the rumors," Freen cut her off, her voice steady and sharp. "Ever. Remember this—I don’t do drama. Any kind. I’m not built for it. I hate the cheesy, over-the-top emotions people throw around in the name of love and hatred."
She stared deep into Becky’s eyes, the weight of her words sinking in.
"I have no place for sentimentality," she continued, her voice low, firm. "I only act the way people expect me to. But at my core? I don’t care."
She stopped mid-sentence, as if catching herself before revealing too much. Being cold and distant had become second nature to Freen. Sometimes, she didn’t even realize how far she took it. Something inside her was always triggered, always forcing her to push the world away.
Freen turned back to the screen and pressed play. "Just don’t believe everything you see or hear. It’s not always the truth."
Becky sat in silence, her heart caught in a strange storm.
Because the truth was… Freen wasn’t heartless. She wasn’t indifferent. She was pretending.
And Becky wanted—no, needed—to know why.
"I don’t," Becky finally said, her voice quiet but firm. "I believe in actions."
I believe in the way you treat me, P’Freen.
I believe in the way you try so hard to be cold but still look after me.
I believe in the way you pretend you don’t care, yet always make sure I’m comfortable.
She wished she could say it out loud. But for now, she kept it inside.
The movie continued, and with only half an hour left, the storm in Becky’s mind finally settled. Krik was just a friend. And strangely, the way Freen had made it clear—almost ruthlessly—brought her an odd sense of peace.
Freen stiffened as Becky's head gently fell against her shoulder, her weight light yet somehow overwhelming. Instinctively, Freen’s hand reached up, cradling Becky’s head in a subconscious act of support. She was sound asleep—her breathing soft and steady, completely at ease.
The proximity was both comforting and alarming. Freen’s heart pounded in her chest, a rhythm too loud for the quiet of the night. She quickly closed the laptop, setting it aside before carefully adjusting Becky’s position against the couch armrest to prevent her from waking up with an aching neck.
Becky lay curled up, her legs tucked inside the blanket, her body nestled in the cocoon of warmth they had unknowingly created. Freen sat still, reluctant to move, unwilling to break the delicate atmosphere that carried Becky’s scent, wrapping around her like an invisible tether. She gazed at the sleeping girl for a moment too long, her fingers hovering just above Becky's face, drawn to the loose strands of hair that had fallen across her cheek. But she hesitated—because it was getting louder.
Her heartbeat. Her awareness. Her fear.
With a quiet sigh, she stood up, carefully repositioning Becky’s legs so she could sleep more comfortably. Freen pulled the blanket up, tucking it around her with gentle precision. Just as she turned to leave, her steps faltered.
Becky’s habits played vividly in her mind—the way she sprawled across the bed, claiming every inch of space in her sleep. How was she supposed to fit on the couch while Becky took up the entire bed? The thought made her pause.
After a brief internal battle, she finally gave in. Moving cautiously, she bent down and gathered Becky into her arms, lifting her as effortlessly as if she weighed nothing. But holding her—it wasn’t effortless. It was heavy in ways Freen didn’t want to admit. The warmth of Becky against her chest, the faint scent of her shampoo, the steady rise and fall of her breathing—it was intoxicating.
She walked slowly, too slowly, prolonging the moment under the guise of not wanting to wake Becky or, worse, drop her. But deep down, she knew the truth. She didn’t want to let go.
Once in the bedroom, Freen gently laid Becky down, tucking the blanket around her, ensuring she was warm. Her hands lingered, trembling with restraint. She wanted to brush her fingers over Becky’s cheek, tap her head fondly, whisper how proud she was. Maybe even press a soft kiss to her forehead.
The thought alone sent a shiver through her.
No.
Freen swallowed hard, forcing herself to step back. Shutting down the dangerous thoughts before they spiraled further, she turned away and retreated to her own bed. But as she lay there, staring at the ceiling, her heart still hadn’t slowed.
And that terrified her the most.