Chapter 35
With a sudden shockwave crashing through her, Freen's knees buckled—not from jet lag, but from the tremor of dread now clawing through her chest. Her hands trembled, the phone slipping slightly as dozens of missed calls and message notifications flooded the screen like a dam had broken. Her name—Becky—flashed again and again, as if fate was mocking her with every ping.
Her breathing grew ragged, shallow. It felt like someone had reached into her chest and gripped her heart with icy hands. Her mind couldn’t stop spiraling—flashing with images of Becky hurt, bleeding, broken. The girl she had promised to protect, love quietly from afar, now tangled in some unknown terror, and Freen wasn’t even there.
Not a scratch... I can’t bear even a scratch on her…
She stared blankly at the cold, foreign airport floor beneath her feet, but her eyes saw nothing. Just the image of Becky—fragile, scared, alone.
And then it all came crashing down.
Every memory of fate’s cruelty. Every time she had convinced herself love was too dangerous. Every time life proved her right.
Her past flashed before her like a cruel montage—the bruises of life, the faces she had lost, the promises that broke under the weight of the moment. Fate had never played fair with her. It had always taken more than it gave.
And yet… she still offered Becky to it.
She still let Becky in. She still let love bloom in the garden of her ruin.
"How could I be this selfishhhhhh!" the scream tore through her mind like shattering glass. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her fists clenched, nails digging into her palms so hard it felt like she was trying to punish herself.
Her trauma hit her like a tidal wave—relentless, choking. Her vision blurred. The white noise in her ears crescendoed into a roar. She clutched her chest, trying to breathe, trying to stay present, but it was too late.
The floor rushed toward her.
She collapsed.
Right there in the middle of Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport.
Gasps rippled around her. The airport staff scrambled, a man in a blue vest rushing forward, radio already in hand. "We need medical, now! She's collapsed!"
Others circled, unsure whether to help or back away, as an emergency was announced over the loudspeaker. Freen lay there, curled slightly on her side, motionless but still clutching her phone—Becky’s name still glowing dimly on the cracked screen.
And as sirens echoed somewhere in the distance—on a road far away in another country—her heart remained somewhere in between, breaking quietly, endlessly.
Back in the home city…
Carlos’s car, only seconds behind them. Meg’s, just ahead—unmarked, assigned secretly for Becky’s security. But none of them had expected this. No protocol covered fate’s wrath.
The loaded truck came out of nowhere, a monster on wheels, swerving violently across the lane. It slammed straight into Kade’s side—her car crumpling like paper—and yet, by a miracle she couldn’t explain, Kade escaped with just a few scratches. A few bruises. Conscious, shaken… but alive.
But Becky?
Becky was another story.
Her side of the car took the worst. Glass. Smoke. Blood.
She didn’t move.
Carlos was the first to reach them, flinging open the wrecked door with a force powered by pure panic. Meg’s tires screeched to a halt ahead as she sprinted back. A few feet apart, they saw the same thing—Kade, dazed, trying to crawl out... and Becky, slumped and still.
No time to think. Only act.
Carlos and Meg rushed them both to the hospital, in a blur of broken lights and prayers whispered through gritted teeth.
At the hospital...
News broke like wildfire.
Within minutes, reporters flooded the hospital gates. Cameras clicked. Rumors spread like smoke. But Krik was already there.
He took charge of the chaos like only he could.
He handled the press, offering stern, composed statements that didn’t reveal the fear tightening his chest.
He informed Becky’s parents himself—voice calm, presence firm, promising them she would receive the world’s best care.
He personally called Freen’s grandma, explaining everything with a gentleness laced in urgency. Because Freen, no matter how far, would’ve wanted Becky to be in the safest hands.
Inside, Nam, Irin, Nop, Mew, Jeff, some college faculty members along with Miss Orantrara and Grandma held each other tightly, their eyes fixed on the ICU door.
Doctors rushed in to check upon becky.
She was pale. Unconscious. Fragile.
They were running tests, inserting IV lines, stabilizing her breathing—each beep from the machines like a countdown no one could stop.
Meanwhile, Kade sat quietly on the waiting bench. Her hands still shook. Bandages wrapped around her arm. She stared at them like they were supposed to carry meaning.
“I was driving...” she whispered to no one. “I was driving…”
No one blamed her. No one said a word.
But the weight of it was already killing her.
And somewhere far away… in Paris...
Freen was fighting too, fighting to breath properly, fighting her panic attack.
The emergency staff tried to steady her, their voices muffled like echoes in a tunnel. Oxygen mask on. Cold cloth on her forehead. But nothing could touch what was happening inside her.
She was trapped inside her own mind.
She needed to wake up.
She needed to breathe.
She needed to fight.
Because somewhere across the world...
So did Becky.
Two hearts.
Two fates.
Both unconscious.
Both struggling beneath the weight of a cruel, merciless twist of fate.
And somewhere in the background...
The same song still played softly from Kade’s broken car stereo, its final line fading into silence:
🎵 "If the world was ending, you'd come over, right? ...Right?" 🎵
“Miss Sarocha, you’re awake—please don’t move. You had a panic collapse. You need rest—”
But Freen had already pulled off the oxygen mask. Her fingers curled, gripping the thin blanket over her lap like it was the last thing holding her together. The world was still spinning, her legs barely strong—but her heart knew where it had to go.
Home.
To Becky.
“No. No, I can’t stay here. She… she needs me,” she murmured, pushing off the bed, stumbling to her feet.
“Please, ma’am, you're not fit to travel—”
Freen stormed out before they could stop her, clutching her phone that refused to stop buzzing with missed calls. She didn’t care about the airport crowd, about the whispers or looks thrown her way. She didn't stop—not even when her legs almost gave out again.
She marched up to the ticket counter, disheveled and trembling, but her voice—solid like steel.
“Next flight to Bangkok. Book it. First seat you have.”
Inside the waiting area, alone
She slumped into a chair, head in hands. Her thoughts? A chaotic storm.
“Do I go to her?”
“Will my presence save her… or curse her again?”
Her teeth clenched. Nails dug into her palm.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I HATE MY LIFE!”
The scream burst from her lungs before she could stop it—raw, violent, primal. The kind that comes from years of swallowing fate’s cruelty.
Passengers looked. The staff tensed.
But Freen didn’t care.
Tears welled in her eyes again, and this time… they fell. Silently. Freely.
She clenched her fists against her knees.
"Enough," she whispered.
And then… the thought hit her.
The only solution.
If fate loves to trade…
Then let me be the offering.
A slow, burning stare rose in her eyes. A decision. Not weak. Not impulsive.
But absolute.
“If fate wants something to balance this… take me. I’ll trade it all with My tomorrow. Just let her live. Let her smile again.”
She spoke to herself, to the universe, to whatever higher cruelty had puppeteered this pain. A tear fell, landing on her clenched fist like a promise.
“I’m coming for you, Becky. One last time….”
She stood up as her gate was called. Hair wild, eyes burning, soul split in half.
And with that vow whispered beneath her breath—
She boarded the flight.
Ready to return.
Ready to make the deal.
With fate itself.
Three Hours Later — Hospital
The red light outside the operation theatre finally went off.
Everyone stood still.
The doctor stepped out.
“She’s safe now,” the doctor said, pulling off his mask. “She has some fragile injuries—her neck and back are strained, and there are fractures in her left arm and right wrist. But she’s out of danger. She’ll need strict bed rest for at least three weeks, and a lot of care. But there’s nothing to worry about.”
A collective breath was released, like the whole room had been holding onto it this entire time.
Relief swept through them. Silent prayers turned into small smiles. Kade's knees nearly gave out, but Nam caught her. Carlos sat down for the first time since the accident.
When Becky was shifted to ICU recovery, they were allowed to see her, one by one. Everyone walked in with a soft voice and trembling hands. Kade held her uninjured hand longer than she should’ve. Irin tried cracking a joke but teared up halfway through. Her parents stayed close, gently brushing her hair back like they used to when she was little.
Becky smiled at them all—but her eyes were searching for someone else.
Someone who wasn’t there.
She didn’t ask out loud, but everyone in the room could sense it.
She was craving the warmth of one person. Freen.
But Freen wasn’t there yet.
By the time Freen’s plane landed back home, Becky had already been moved from ICU to a normal ward. The hospital quieted down. Unnecessary visitors went home. Only the people who truly mattered remained—Kade, Nam, Krik, Irin, and her parents. They gonna stay there until Becky was finally discharged, each taking turns watching over her.
This time, fate left Becky with a warning.
A sharp, unforgettable one.
And for Freen—
That warning was enough. Enough to make her decision.To cut all ties with Becky.
Before fate could take another swing.
The Hospital — Reunion
The car hadn’t even come to a complete stop when Freen threw the door open.
She sprinted through the hospital entrance like her life depended on it—because in her mind, it did.
Every step echoed with panic.
Krik spotted her in the hallway and tried to stop her, wanting to calm her down, meaning to offer a steadying hug. But Freen didn’t even glance at him. She brushed past Nam and Irin too, only slowing for a brief second when her eyes caught Kade, who stood with her arm in a sling, bruised but alive.
Freen gave her a nod—relief flickering in her eyes—but it lasted only a moment before she turned and rushed again, her chest heaving as she reached the ward.
No one followed.
They knew.
This moment belonged to them.
Freen didn’t knock. She pushed the door open like the air had been suffocating her outside.
And there she was—Becky.
Lying still.
A pale blanket pulled up to her chest. Her left arm in a cast, her right wrist wrapped tight. A neck brace held her in place. Wires monitored her heart and oxygen. Medication still numbed her into sleep.
Freen froze at the doorway.
Her breath hitched.
She took a step forward, slow, cautious, like approaching something holy and broken. Her hands trembled. Her knees weakened. But she moved closer.
When she reached the bed, she didn’t speak. Instead, she sat gently on the edge, leaning in. Her fingers traced Becky’s face—just enough to feel the warmth of her skin.
Then her shoulder.
Her arm.
Her legs.
Soft, cautious touches, trying to understand how much pain was hidden beneath the bruises and the bandages.
Tears slipped quietly down Freen’s cheeks. She pressed her lips to Becky’s forehead, again, and again—then her cheeks, the corner of her mouth, and both closed eyelids, as if trying to kiss away every ache. And finally, she leaned her head over Becky’s, hugging her gently—resting her cheek near her neck, careful not to disturb the brace.
She didn’t speak.
She just cried.
Sobs that shook through her body, soft but raw. The kind of cry no one had ever heard from Freen before. It sounded like years of pain, like guilt finally breaking the silence.
And in the middle of that quiet storm—
Becky stirred.
Eyes fluttered.
The scent.
The warmth.
The ache in her chest lifted just a little as her body recognized who was holding her.
She blinked, slowly, adjusting to the room, to the pain—and then to the sound.
Freen.
Becky didn’t speak. She couldn’t.
But a small, strained tear rolled down the side of her temple.
And Freen noticed.
Her sobs paused just enough to whisper, “I’m sorry… I’m so, so sorry…”
And Becky, through the medicine’s haze, barely moved her lips.
“I missed you.”
Freen pressed her lips softly on Becky’s, then left a trail of gentle kisses all over her face.
“I’m sorry, my angel… I’m so sorry,” she whispered between each kiss, her voice trembling.
Becky, with all the strength she had, lifted her hand to wipe away Freen’s tears. But Freen gently caught her wrist and placed it back down against the blanket.
“Okay, okay… let’s not make it more painful than it already is, alright?” Freen said with a forced smile, quickly wiping her own tears. She tried to shift her energy, to not let Becky see the ache inside her chest. “I’m here, bb… Let’s get better quickly, yeah?” she added, leaning down to kiss Becky again, again, and again.
But Becky, being Becky, saw through all of it. The pain in Freen’s eyes was quiet but loud—palpable, undeniable.
“I love you so much, babe,” Becky whispered softly. “You don’t have to be this strong for me. Let’s heal together, na kha…”
Freen nodded, biting back her tears as a sob escaped her throat.
Then Becky added, with her lips barely moving, “Please promise me you won’t do anything stupid. You won’t leave me—not now, not ever.”
Freen looked into her eyes, a bittersweet smile touching her lips. “I don’t do promises, na… But I will always be with you. This life or the next. That much I can say.”
Becky didn’t know the full weight of those words. She only smiled at the thought of having Freen forever.
Very soon, Becky got discharged and went straight to her home under her parents' care, while Freen made sure she healed faster, so she stayed there most of the time too.
But as two weeks went by, Freen knew she had to start working on her blueprint of disappearing from everyone’s life to finally end hers. But she didn’t want to rip the bandage off and hurt Becky suddenly. This time, she decided to give Becky a proper closure. She thought she would talk it all out and make Becky understand everything.
And the day finally arrived—Becky was doing well, able to walk, with just her arm fracture needing another week to heal. Freen decided it was time to talk it all out with her.
Freen waited until the house felt quiet that evening. Becky was curled up in the living room, flipping through an old photo album her mom had found. Freen sat beside her, watching her smile faintly at a picture from high school—the one where she had braces and uneven bangs, the one Freen had always called “her sunflower smile.”
Freen took a deep breath.
“Can we talk?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Becky looked up, her eyes warm and relaxed. “Hmm? Of course,” she said, setting the album aside and adjusting her pillow. “What’s going on?”