Chapter Text
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Becky stares past the camera, trying to channel as much loneliness and hurt as she can into her character.
As much as Mon misses Sam, Becky misses Freen.
In an effort to make their performances as authentic as possible, they agreed to stay away from each other while they film the separation in the wake of the confrontation with Sam’s grandmother.
“It’s only a day. How bad could it be?” Becky grins at the older girl sitting next to her.
Freen chuckles quietly and kisses her on the forehead. “We’ve got this.”
Stupid, stupid past-Becky.
She hasn’t seen Freen in two days, and there’s an ache in her chest that hasn’t gone away since last morning. The scene at Sam’s wedding photoshoot had already been filmed days before, so Becky is truly sans-Freen all day. She reminds herself that at the end of today, she can see her work wife again.
Irin, as Yuki, comes in suddenly. “Mon! Are you all right?”
Without meaning to, she starts to cry as Yuki wraps her in a hug.
“There, there… Don’t cry.” Her friend pulls away and gently rubs a thumb across their clasped hands, offering silent shows of comfort.
“I must get through this.” Although she is speaking as Mon, the words ring true in her real life as well. Just one more damn day, and then she can go home and hug Freen for a very long time.
“You’re gonna be fine, Mon. I’ll always have your back. Don’t cry.”
Mon cries anyway, because her heart is in immeasurable pain. Becky can feel the snot in her nose threatening to drip. As she looks away from Irin, she says her next line with as much misery as she can muster. “Lady Sam has chosen Lady Grandmother. It’s the right thing to do. I’ve always known that we’re too different. There’s no way we can be together. I knew we had to break up one day.”
By the time Mon finishes speaking, Yuki is a puddle of tears. It’s actually a little funny to see Irin look so sad. But Becky is not interested in doing another take, so she schools her face and listens as Yuki comforts her friend. “Mon, don’t cry. Seeing you cry like this makes me wanna cry as well. Cry no more.”
“The day has finally arrived, and it’s really hard to come to terms with it. I miss her.” She doesn’t have to even act for the last line. The aching in her chest has only gotten worse as the day has dragged on.
She misses Freen’s smile, the way she would knock the brim of her caps down to cover her eyes, the hugs she freely gave. She shakes her head sorrowfully as she feels her eyes prickling again.
“I know.” Her friend pulls her in for a hug again. “There, there… Mon, don’t cry.”
Yuki starts to sob quietly next to her as she keeps telling Mon to not cry, rubbing her shoulders. Together, they sit on the couch with tears streaming down their faces, until the director yells to cut.
“Let’s take ten as we ready the next set!”
Irin feels nice, but her arms aren’t as comforting as Freen’s. There is no one like Freen. Becky almost breaks her resolve, but she knows she would never forgive herself for a lackluster performance. Freen will still be there when the cameras shut off.
Her head is pounding from the crying. She stumbles into a quiet dressing room, wiping her tears and lying down on the couch. All Becky can do is stare at the ceiling as the seconds tick by. Eventually, someone comes to bring her back.
The next scene is in a different set, in the living room of Mon’s parents’ house. Honestly, she doesn’t remember any of it. At this point, she is robotically reciting the lines she practiced a week ago sitting on Freen’s bed. Thankfully, her withdrawn attitude works for the scene.
Filming is complete before she knows it. The cast and crew break away for a fifteen minute turnover, as they prepare for the next scene to shoot.
Becky feels numb. Voices bleed together around her, muffled and unclear. It feels like she’s underwater, limbs heavy and slow.
This is hell. Becky is a shell of her former self, the self she is with Freen.
She puts on the new outfit with the help of the wardrobe designer, and then she’s in front of the cameras again. Just one more scene to film, then she can go home.
This one is probably the worst. Having to look at Freen’s face is killing her. At the director's yell of “Action!” She picks up one of the photos. It’s a black-and-white still of Freen with the trademark CEO Sam expression. She stares at the picture, feeling her eyes well up.
With her other hand, still looking at the photo, Mon removes the lid of the box in front of her, laying down the photo gently, as if she is tucking Sam into bed. A small sob ekes out of her throat.
God, she misses her.
Becky slowly takes down all the photos of Sam on her whiteboard, puts them away into a small box. After half of the photos are removed, she changes into a different outfit, returning to an empty whiteboard.
Her heart feels heavy as she stares at the physical representation of the chasm between Sam and Mon. She hopes that she will never have to do anything as heartbreaking as this in real life. The many nights of whispered assurances pop into her head as she looks at all the white space in front of her.
Freen told her once, many moons ago, of how she was always left alone. Her coworkers and costars would always have someone waiting to pick them up after work was over, but she had no one. Until she met Becky.
From then on, Becky made sure to always let Freen know. She is loved, she is wanted, she is not alone.
It’s not the Freen forgets; sometimes, she just needs a reminder, assurances. Becky knows that. And she is more than happy to tell Freen.
“Will you stay with me forever?” Freen’s sleepy drawl creeps up from where the older woman is lodging on her chest. She speaks into the soft fabric of her own sweater that Becky is wearing, a soft, white university one that the younger one borrowed (read: stole) months ago.
“Yes, forever. I promise.” She punctuates every syllable with a kiss somewhere on Freen’s face.
The older girl burrows even deeper into her embrace. Becky grins at the way her breath moves through the fabric, making the skin above her heart feel extra warm.
She wishes she could tell her something now.
All that’s left is a lone photo of Mon, happy and smiling. Becky uncaps a pink dry-erase marker and listens to it squeak as she writes out GO TO ENGLAND! Then, she opens Mon’s laptop and scrolls mindlessly through the pages.
Finally, finally, the shoot is over. As the director yells “Cut!” once again, she collapses into herself, covering her face with her hands as her body is wracked with tears.
She made it. For nearly forty-eight hours, she didn’t have her best friend at her side.
So begins the quickest costume change of her life. She slips into her regular clothes and runs across the building, into the cafeteria.
There, in all her humble glory, sits her favorite person. She looks so handsome in Becky’s short-sleeve hoodie and cuffed chino shorts. The backwards cap is the cherry on top. She is a work of art, a sight for sore eyes. So obviously, she heads straight for her, like a heat-seeking missile. A Freen-seeker.
At the sound of her footsteps, Freen smiles and stands, just in time to catch Becky in her arms.
They don’t need to say anything out loud—their actions speak for them. The floodgates open and they’re crying into each other’s shoulders.
She has no idea how much time passes, but soon the tremors die down and they pull apart just enough to look each other in the eye. Becky leans up and kisses Freen’s cheeks and jaw, tasting salt with every touch.
“I missed you.”
The taller girl gently cradles her face in her hands, laughing wetly. She leans forward and presses her lips to the center of Becky’s forehead, right on her widow’s peak. “I missed you too. Let’s go home, okay?”
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