Chapter 37
Days passed, one by one.
And Becky?
She spent every single moment fighting fate—on her terms.
The once dusty study room had turned into a battlefield of fate and free will.
Sticky notes.
Red strings.
Scribbled timelines.
Whiteboards filled with everything Freen had ever said, done, avoided, or left unsaid.
She mapped every mess Freen’s fate had thrown at her—dissected it like a scientist, questioned it like a philosopher. Becky became obsessed with patterns, obsessed with the past, obsessed with meaning.
She devoured pages of ancient testimonies from dusty library books.
Scoured every corner of the internet learning how to decipher karmic loops, recurring events in someone's life.
She barely slept.
Barely ate.
She lived off determination and tea.
Because this wasn’t just about getting Freen back.
It was about rewriting the ending.
About proving that destiny wasn’t some unchangeable prophecy, but a challenge waiting to be outsmarted.
Meanwhile—
Freen was quietly untangling herself from the world she’d built.
She started preparing her transfer papers—both from campus and her business. One by one, she gave people rehearsed reasons for her decision. That it was her long-held dream to study abroad. That the timing was finally right. That she could run the company remotely just as well.
Everyone believed her.
Except for one person.
Grandma.
She didn’t say much. But her eyes saw right through Freen's practiced smiles.
She tried every excuse in the book to delay or denied her departure—pretending she needed help with her meds, cooking too much and insisting Freen eat at home, saying the weather was too unpredictable for travel.
And finally, Freen folded.
“It’s just for a year, grandma,” she said softly. “I’ll come back once I finish my graduation.”
Only then did her grandma sigh and nod, though the weight in her eyes never left.
Because deep down, she knew.
Freen wasn’t just leaving to study.
She was running.
The final day had arrived.
Or perhaps, the last day ever—the one where Freen would leave the country for good.
Her flight was at night. And the sky felt heavier than usual.
Becky was curled on the floor of her study room—limbs limp, eyes bloodshot, locked in a blank stare at the chaotic whiteboard in front of her.
A board once filled with hope.
Now?
Just a graveyard of everything she couldn’t fix.
She was numb.
There were no more tears to cry.
No more pain left to feel.
Just the cold floor against her skin, the silence loud, and the clock ticking like a countdown to heartbreak.
Meanwhile, Freen had packed everything.
Said her goodbyes.
Held her grandma longer than she should’ve.
She hugged her friends too, asking them to check in on Becky sometimes—pretending she'd already said her personal goodbye back at Becky’s place.
A lie. But necessary. Because she couldn’t bear another goodbye. Not from her.
Freen drove to the airport two hours earlier than needed—alone, on purpose. She wanted it all to be weightless. Quick. Clean.
But nothing about it was.
Back in Becky’s room, time was crumbling.
Everything she tried—every calculation, every study, every desperate attempt to break Freen's so-called fate—had led to nothing.
The silence broke her.
She suddenly stood, her breath sharp and broken. She stormed to her father’s room, rummaging through drawers like a storm looking for shelter, for a sign—for something that still held Freen in it.
And then she found it. A pack of cigarettes.
The same brand Freen had the night they’d confessed to each other. The night they burned and bloomed in silence.
Becky lit one. She wasn’t a smoker, never had been. But that didn’t matter now.
She crawled back into the study room, took a deep puff. It tasted like ache and memories. She paced—breathing in chaos, exhaling pain—scattering notes, ripping through folders, screaming into silence.
She pressed the duster to one corner of the whiteboard. Her fingers trembled, but her eyes stayed locked. Focused. Dry. Not a tear left—just that deep, hollow ache in her chest.
And with each stroke of the duster, she wasn’t just wiping away marker ink— she was letting go.
Of dreams. Of love. Of the fight.
Erasing the evidence of Freen's cruel fate from her white board one by one.
First—her dad.
The sacrifices, the heartbreak, the fear.
Erased.
Then—her best friend.
The shared secrets, the missed signs, the silence.
Gone.
Her dog.
The timeline of his passing, the symbol he unknowingly became.
Wiped clean.
Her grandfather.
The strange coincidences. The unfinished stories.
Gone.
Her mother.
The patterns. The loss. The parallels.
Erased.
Her Project
Her dream, Her passion, rejected.
Then—BonBon.
Sweet, innocent BonBon.
The one who suffered the most without understanding why.
Gone in a single swipe.
And then—herself.
She stared at her name, written right in the center, underlined.
So bold. So sure.
The last thread holding it all together.
She pressed the duster to her name, ready to let go completely.
But the moment the ink vanished—
Something clicked.
She froze.
Her breath hitched.
She stepped back. One step. Two. Then three.
Wide-eyed.
Heart pounding.
She stared at the now nearly blank board, every wiped detail playing in reverse in her mind—connecting. Clicking.
Suddenly, it made sense.
She saw it.
She took one final, deep puff of the cigarette—and dropped it instantly, her fingers trembling.
She grabbed a marker like her life depended on it, like the world was ending and beginning at once.
And she rewrote.
Faster than ever—lines, arrows, names, circles. Her eyes scanned every corner, and her hand couldn’t keep up with her mind. And when she finally stepped back again, it was there.
The cycle.
The truth.
The crack in fate's curse.
And she ran.
"DAAAD!" she screamed, grabbing her overcoat, stumbling into the hallway.
Her father blinked in confusion as she yelled, out of breath, “DROP ME TO THE AIRPORT. NOW!”
“Becky, wha—?”
“I can’t explain. Please. Just—please,” she begged, eyes burning with belief and terror.
He didn’t ask again.
He just grabbed the keys and ran after her.
They sped through the city like their lives were on the line.
Because what is a love story,
if one lover doesn’t run through chaos—through fate—to the airport,
to stop the one person who ever truly mattered?
Becky sat in silence.
Mouth shut.
Eyes burning.
She didn’t say a word, not even to her dad.
Her father glanced at her—once, twice—but didn’t ask. He saw her eyes. That was enough.
Because in those eyes… something had lit up. Something terrifyingly beautiful for sure.
She wasn’t just running to stop a flight. She was racing against fate itself.
And the spring inside her wasn’t empty— it was loud.
Her mind was on fire. The board. The names. The order. The cycles, The pattern.
She couldn’t even breathe properly.
Tears pricked her eyes but didn’t fall. She was done crying. This was not about heartbreak anymore— This was about unfolding a new season with all the right reasons.
Watching Becky lost somewhere, grinning, smiling. “Becky…?” her dad finally asked, slowing down as traffic thickened toward the expressway.
Becky snapped out of it, blinked, her eyes wide.
“How much time left?” she whispered.
He checked the clock. “An hour twenty till takeoff.”
She stared ahead. Gritted her teeth. “Drive like we have fifty.”
He didn’t ask why.
He just sped up.
And as the city lights blurred past them like streaks of time,
Becky clutched the sleeve of her coat tight to her chest, the lingering scent of Freen’s cigarette still clinging to her breath.
She couldn’t explain it to anyone.
But she believed it with the core of her soul.
She couldn’t be late.
Not this time.
Just as Freen was about to step forward, her boarding pass in hand, fingers tightening around her passport—
“P’FIEEEEEEEEEEEEN!”
The entire airport jolted to the sound of Becky’s scream.
Freen froze. Her body stiff.
She turned back, and there she was—Becky.
Jumping. Waving.
Her sunshine smile lighting up the terminal like it was any other day—like nothing had ever gone wrong between them.
“P’FIEEEEEEEN! Please stop now! I have something to tell you!” Becky shouted again, louder, more desperate.
Freen’s breath caught. Her heart stuttered.
For a flicker of a second, she wanted to run.
Run to her.
But her walls had grown too high.
She convinced herself it was another trick. Another one of Becky’s clever, reckless ways to stop her from walking away.
Freen swallowed down the ache, clenched her jaw, and gave a firm shake of her head—no.
Then turned away.
The guards were already moving in. Becky’s dad tried to hold them off, speaking to them firmly. Becky dodged one of them, her voice shaking now, still screaming over the chaos:
“I swear if you take one more step—I’ll die for sure! I’m not kidding! Your fate set the trap, P’Fieeen! Don’t move—don’t you dare move!”
Freen paused.
The boarding gate crew glanced nervously, unsure if this was drama or emergency.
But Freen… She heard it. Every syllable—straight to her chest. Yet she forced herself to breathe. To not give up now, to not putting Becky at risk again, to not mocking her fate again, so she walks away. She told herself—not again. Not this time.
The security team held Becky back, urging her to calm down, to step aside, but her eyes never left Freen’s figure disappearing beyond the gate.
It didn’t crush her completely. Because Becky knew. She could chase Freen to the US, she would. But still… her heart cracked right there in that terminal like glass under pressure.
She collapsed into one of the lounge chairs, chest heaving. Her dad was still trying to talk the guards down, trying to explain the emotional hurricane that just swept through their family.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. Silent. Endless.
“I didn’t give up for even a second… And when I have it all figured out, you walk off, Freen. You really walk off…”
She sobbed into her hands. And wipping her tears with her sleeves But then— a warm palm gently brushed the tears from her cheek.
Familiar. Steady. Home.
Her breath hitched.
She looked up— and there she was.
Freen.
Eyes red. Shoulders shaking. Chest rising and falling like she’d been running through lifetimes.
Becky’s mouth fell open. Her eyes lit up like a galaxy catching fire.
She didn’t say a word.
She just leapt into Freen’s arms, wrapping around her like she never wanted to let go.
Freen caught her mid-air, spinning her gently despite the injury. Becky forgot everything—her pain, her stardom, the cameras flashing from every angle, the phones recording from the very beginning.
Because at that moment, none of it mattered.
Halfway across the city—
Krik shouted from the kitchen, “Grandma! TURN ON THE NEWS—NOW!”
She grabbed the remote, switched the channel, and there it was—
Becky in full rom-com mode, screaming in the airport, chasing after Freen like her life depended on it.
Despite of what news they were making out of it, Grandma’s eyes filled with tears, but not of fear.
But Pride.
She picked up her phone, speed-dialed Miss Orntaraa.
Miss Orntaraa answered in a panic. “Love?! What happened? Are you okay?!”
But Grandma smiled through her watery eyes. “Darling… come fast. I can’t watch this without you.”
Miss Orntaraa jolted from her chair. “Hold on—I’m coming, baby, stay with me—”
“And while you’re coming,” Grandma added sweetly, “bring the most expensive wine you can find, will you? It’s time to celebrate.”
“…What?!” Miss Orntaraa blinked, confused.
“That’s just how Grandma is,” Krik muttered with a grin, watching history unfold on TV.