Chapter Text
The neon sign above the entrance glowed warm and electric: Tropic City . Hints of rum, citrus, and salt drifted from the open doors. The low hum of house beats and clinking glasses spilled onto the street, luring Becky in as her Grab car pulled up just beside the curb.
She stepped out carefully, smoothing down her navy satin blouse tucked into cream trousers—slightly high-waisted, loose, but cinched at the ankle. Her hair was clipped back behind her ears, soft waves brushing her cheekbones, gloss catching the golden bar lights from inside. Calm on the outside. Whether or not she actually was? Entirely up for debate.
Her phone buzzed: a LINE notification from Irin checking if she’d gotten there safely. Becky just locked the screen. She wasn’t in the headspace to update anyone. Not yet.
Inside, the place was dim and tropical—the kind of cocktail bar that felt like a mirage. Palms cast shadows against brick walls, the bar lined with jewel-toned bottles and carved fruit slices. The bass of the music thrummed through the floor.
And there she was.
Freen .
Already sitting by the bar, back half-leaned against the wooden counter like she belonged to it. Her button-up shirt was black, open at the collar with sleeves casually rolled, tucked into khaki trousers and a chain clipped from her belt loop. Freen looked unfairly good. Relaxed. Almost glowing. A silver ring glinted on her finger as she raised a glass of water to her lips— the Chanel ring.
Becky felt her stomach twist.
She had noticed it the second she stepped in.
The same ring she gave Freen during her convocation, the one nestled inside a cream velvet box.
And yet Becky herself wasn’t wearing the pink hourglass necklace Freen had once given her.
It was in her bag.
Normally she’d wear it anytime. Always with her. But not tonight.
She needed to know where they stood first.
She walked over slowly, composed, her heels clicking softly.
Their eyes met.
Freen did a half, unsure wave. Becky made her way over, heart drumming.
Freen turned, eyes lifting to meet hers. "Hey."
"Hey," Becky breathed back. She slid onto the stool next to her.
"You came," Freen said, her voice low and warm. “Wasn’t sure if you would.”
“I said I would,” Becky replied.
The bartender turned to them. "What can I get you ladies tonight?"
Freen didn’t miss a beat. "Rum old fashioned for me. And—" she turned slightly toward Becky, voice lower now, "—maybe a Jungle Bird for her. You’ll like it. Bittersweet, fruity, sharp."
"You ordering for me now?" Becky raised a brow.
Freen smirked faintly. "Just a suggestion. You’re free to object."
But Becky didn’t. She looked away for a second, cheeks tingling, then back again. "Fine. Hit me."
The bartender gave them a nod and started prepping.
They sat for a moment in the haze of bar light and silence, listening to the sounds of muddled herbs and ice clinks.
"So," Becky said, glancing sideways, "Why this place?”
Freen shrugged a shoulder, toying with her ring. "Good drinks. Good music. Bit tucked away. I figured… if we were gonna talk about real things, I didn’t wanna do it in a place pretending to be louder than us."
Their drinks arrived and both of them took a sip. Becky with her Jungle Bird; that tasted rather sweet and juicy at first and a few seconds later the bitter kick sneaks in.
Freen watched, slightly amused. “You don’t like it?”
“I do….but it’s something alright.” Becky licked her lips, before she cleared her throat. “Anyway…thanks for the scrapbook. For everything you wrote in it. It was more honest than anything I’ve gotten in a long time."
Freen glanced downwards, a wistful smile etched on her lips "I meant everything in it.”
Becky nodded once, then pressed forward, voice steadier now. “You said you wanted to talk about real things.”
“Yeah. I do.” Freen looked at her, eyes unreadable.
"So what really happened? Between us. Why did you disappear for months and then send me that weird text like I did something wrong?"
Freen exhaled. Her fingers gripped the rim of her glass.
"I saw the tweet," she said finally. "You retweeted that post on your birthday. The one with the chocolate bouquet. Flowers. From him. Jackie."
Becky blinked. "Wait—Twitter? I didn’t even know you’re active there."
Freen half-laughed, but there was no humour in it. "I wasn’t. Not really. Just… sometimes. I check. When I miss you."
"That was just a retweet," Becky said. "And I retweeted it because he tagged me there. That’s all."
"So nothing happened between you two?" Freen looked at her, unreadable.
"At that time? No."
The words hung there. Until Freen caught them.
" At that time? "
Becky hesitated.
Freen’s voice dropped. "You guys are a thing now, aren’t you?"
"No," Becky said. "But… he’s trying. I know he is."
Freen’s jaw clenched subtly. Her eyes darted down, then away.
Becky saw it—the pain she was trying to mask.
"But you can’t blame me," Becky said, voice cracking slightly. "You pushed me away. You ghosted me. And I waited, Freen.”
"I know," Freen murmured.
" Do you? Because it felt like you made your choice. You made it clear when you told me to go to Jackie. Like you didn’t even want to fight for us."
Freen swallowed hard. Then she looked straight at Becky, raw and open in a way Becky hadn’t seen in months.
"I remembered what you told me. That night in Pattaya by the beach. You said… if I ever came back to Bangkok, I’d have to see for myself whether you still…"
Still wait for you.
Still want you.
Freen didn’t say it. She didn’t have to.
Her voice wavered. "Do you? Still? "
Becky opened her mouth.
She wanted to say yes . Even now. Even after everything.
But her voice barely came out. "I’m scared."
Freen’s brows furrowed, pain flashing across her face.
"Scared of what?"
"Of saying what we both want to hear. And then you disappearing again. Of being left in that limbo. Because I don’t deserve that. I tried to understand—your past, your baggage—but it doesn’t make it easier."
Freen looked down.
The music played on softly behind them, some slow beat with faint synths and percussion. The sound of ice melting in their drinks.
Tears brimmed in Becky’s eyes but didn’t fall. Just sat there, unshed. Freen’s were already gathering.
"If we want to do this," Becky whispered, "we can’t keep orbiting around each other while forgetting to love ourselves first."
Silence fell.
Just two girls, two drinks, and the weight of months unsaid.
Freen sniffled softly. Then, voice barely audible, she asked:
"What do we do then? Because I don’t want to lose you. Not now . Not when I’m finally back for good."
“I don’t know,” she said. “But maybe... we stop pretending we’re fine. And start trying to better ourselves first. So that— if —we try again, we’re not dragging our ruins into each other.”
Becky looked at her. Really looked. Saw the longing, the guilt, the ache Freen never let anyone else see.
Their eyes locked.
A long, trembling beat.
Both of them broken. Both of them still burning.
Then carefully, almost hesitating, she put her hand on top of Freen’s own. The silver ring felt cool under her skin.
"Let’s….let’s figure it out.” Becky exhaled. " Together ."
Freen’s other hand now curled on top of Becky’s, tentative but certain.
“We start again?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Becky nodded, “We try.”
Their hands stayed joined. Outside, the city pulsed on—neon lights glowing against slick streets, motorbikes zipping past the narrow sois, the hum of Bangkok alive and breathing.
From their quiet corner of Tropic City, it felt like a bubble. One moment carved out of the chaos.
Maybe the world hadn’t stopped. But for them—it was starting over.
____
(A month later)
It’s late afternoon at Manarom hospital, the kind of hour where the corridors start to gradually quiet down, but the paperwork doesn’t. Across Becky’s desk where files were fanned out like quiet reminders of people’s pain. Her fingers moved rhythmically over her keyboard, logging session notes, cross-checking progress reports, and double-checking patient data. Her wrist ached, her posture slightly hunched, but she didn’t complain.
This was the rhythm of her days now—soft tones in therapy rooms, air-conditioned corridors, coffee refills in the staff pantry, and the muted click of her mouse as she scrolled through Excel sheets. She wasn’t seeing patients today, only helping behind the scenes, but even that came with its own kind of emotional weight. She took it seriously. Carefully. Steadily.
When she finally leaned back in her chair, she realised she hadn’t eaten anything sweet all day. Maybe that’s what she needed—something sugary. Something to cut through the salt of the hospital air and spreadsheets.
Becky picked up her phone and instinctively opened Instagram. That’s when it hit her: a close-up photo on Freen’s story— khao niao mamuang , perfectly ripe mangoes glistening against warm sticky rice, soaked in coconut cream.
Her stomach growled.
She stared at the story for a few seconds longer than she should’ve, then slid up to reply.
becca___: that looks so good…
She was just about to lock her phone again when her screen lit up with a message from Freen.
It was a photo.
Freen, biting into a thick piece of mango. A smirk pulling on her lips. Half-sarcastic, half-teasing. The caption read:
srchafreen: ur not eating it, but I am 😏
Becky smiled. She could practically hear Freen’s voice in her head, mocking playfully.
They didn’t talk or meet up all the time. Some days passed with just exchanged memes or an occasional late-night voice message, updating about their day while slurred with sleep. But there was a sense of consistency now, a rhythm they never had before. A gentle undercurrent that said: I’m still here.
But were they still stuck in a situationship?
Maybe yes.
Maybe no.
___
The clinking of fine silverware and soft jazz music filled the warm, sunlit space of the Mandarin Oriental’s riverside terrace. Becky’s family sat around a white-clothed table, brunch in full swing. Her dad was mid-sentence, gesturing with his mimosa, her mom chuckling softly behind her coffee cup, and Richie scrolling through photos on his phone.
“This is nice,” her father said, smiling over at Becky. “Feels like it’s been forever since we’ve all sat down like this.”
“Because it has been forever,” Richie muttered, not looking up. “You’re always in Singapore, I’m bouncing between cities, Mom lives at her hotel—”
“And Becky lives at the hospital,” her mom chimed in. “Little doctor-in-training.”
Becky laughed lightly. “Not a doctor, Mom. Just an assistant clinical psychologist.”
“You’ll always be our smart girl,” her dad said, giving her a proud nod.
They moved from one topic to another—new clients, AI in hospitality, Richie’s app launch—until Richie suddenly smirked.
“Oh, and guess who I ran into a few days ago?” he said.
“Who?”
“ Jackie. At the car expo.”
Becky froze for a half-second, then picked up her fork. “How’s he doing?”
“Still wearing those ugly loafers,” Richie said with a snort. “But yeah, we talked. He said you two caught up recently?”
Becky nodded slowly. “Yeah. We met for coffee a week back. Just to catch up.”
A quick flashback tugged at her mind—Jackie sitting across from her at a quiet cafe, sincere eyes behind glasses, voice low.
That day had been overcast, the sky the color of wet cement. They had met at a small café tucked into a quiet lane in Ari —Jackie’s suggestion, because “I remember you said you liked the eclairs here.”
He arrived early, of course. That was very Jackie. Always early. Always slightly overdressed. That day, in a crisp shirt and those signature loafers Becky used to think were kinda slick.
She had expected awkwardness. But it wasn’t. Just… a softness, an air of uncertainty that had been going on far longer than she’d prefer.
“So… how’ve you been?” he’d asked, stirring his coffee even though he didn’t take sugar.
Becky looked at him—this person who once she thought at some point would be close to being something, but never quite. “Busy,” she said honestly. “Exhausted. Learning a lot. Messing up just slightly.”
“Sounds typical for a person like you.” Jackie smiled gently.
There had been a pause. One of those quiet, unsure ones.
He leaned back, his voice measured. “I used to think we’d get there eventually. You and me. I held onto that for a while.”
Becky looked down, then back up. And this time, she didn’t dodge it.
“I figured,” she said softly. “And I’m sorry if I let that linger longer than I should’ve.”
He shook his head. “No. You never gave me false hope. I just… had my own.”
She nodded, breathing in slowly.
“You feel more like a mentor to me,” she said. “Like… an older brother. That’s what it’s always been for me, Jackie.”
He didn’t flinch. Just smiled, sad but relieved.
“I know. I’m glad you could say it.”
And just like that, it settled. The uncertainty between them lifted.
___
Today was one of those days where her voice was hoarse. Her nose stuffed. Her whole body felt like it had been dipped in exhaustion and microwaved.
She hated being sick.
Becky had taken a medical leave and curled up in her blanket nest, surrounded by tissues, cough syrup, and a half-eaten guava. Her head was spinning slightly when the doorbell rang.
She dragged herself to open it.
Freen stood there, hair sticking out at odd angles, holding a plastic bag with a familiar logo.
“You look kinda shitty not gonna lie,” Freen said with a grimace.
“You’re here,” Becky croaked.
Freen raised the bag in her hand like a trophy. “You think I’m letting you die alone in here? I brought sustenance. Don’t say I never do anything for you”
The girl stepped inside like she owned the place.
“Is that... porridge?” Becky blinked at her.
Freen raised an eyebrow. “The good kind. From that place you like.”
They settled on the couch, Becky curled in her blanket while Freen unpacked the bag, popped open the container of warm porridge.
“You’re not gonna eat any?” Becky asked.
“Absolutely not!” Freen looked mildly offended. “That texture is offensive. I brought myself krapow .”
Becky smirked, sick-voiced and sassy. “Aww, but you brought it for me anyway?”
“I’m thoughtful, not suicidal.”
They laughed.
Freen looked around the room, and she zeroed in on Becky’s study table. “Why do you have like—fifty gel pens? And they are all black! Are you running some kind of stationery business?”
“They’re all for my reports!”
“And you only have two hands.”
“Don’t disrespect the craft,” Becky said, mock stern.
They ate in that small comforting silence that only comes when the air between two people doesn’t need to be filled. Becky slurped her porridge while Freen ate her food right beside her.
After a while, Becky’s voice broke the quiet.
She talked—about a patient she saw last week, about a young girl with panic attacks who doodled butterflies in every corner of her session notes. Becky’s voice was thick and low, tired and affectionate. Freen listened.
At one point, without thinking, Freen reached over and gently tucked a piece of hair behind Becky’s ear. Becky didn’t flinch—just leaned closer, resting her head on Freen’s shoulder.
They sat like that, the city humming outside the window. Soft. Still.
“I missed this,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.
Freen tilted her head slightly, resting her cheek against Becky’s hair.
“We’re doing it now,” she said quietly.
Becky thought, We haven’t done this enough.
And maybe…
Maybe it was time they did.
***
The email came in just after noon. The subject line read: "Welcome to the TENTACLES Team" , and even before she opened it, Freen had a strange feeling—like something gentle but powerful shifting inside her.
She stared at the screen for a few seconds longer, just to let the words sink in. Then clicked. Read. Re-read.
Her lips curved slowly, then wider. And by the third paragraph, she was already smiling so hard it hurt.
She'd gotten it.
She’d really gotten it.
TENTACLES wasn’t just any art initiative—it was one she’d admired since she was a second-year undergrad. A place that didn’t just showcase creativity, but fostered it. They gave artists a platform to experiment, to collaborate, to reach across borders and disciplines. It felt like the perfect step forward—real, rooted, and still free.
Freen let out a quiet laugh and leaned back in her chair, the sunlight spilling across her apartment floor. For a moment, she just sat there, letting the warmth stretch through her chest.
Her iPad was still charging. Her sketchbook lay open on the table, half-filled with lazy doodles and thumbnail ideas she hadn’t touched since getting back from France. She hadn’t rushed to make or do anything right after the exhibition. She hadn’t jumped at the next project or freelance. Instead, she went back to her hometown to Chonburi .
Spent time with her mom and grandma. Ate grilled fish by the water. Slept in. Let herself be quiet.
There was a lot to reflect on. Not just about art. About herself. The way she’d handled things—with people. With Becky. With her own heart.
Sometimes, on quieter afternoons, and when the thoughts got too loud, Freen would pop in her earbuds and queue up one of those self-reflection podcasts. The kind with a calm-voiced therapist who talked about emotional patterns—avoidant tendencies, the fear of vulnerability, why some people retreat just when things start to feel real.
She hadn’t planned to get into them. It started with one random episode a few weeks back, something about "why we push people away when we want them close." The title felt like a punch to the gut. So she listened. Then she listened to another. And another.
It wasn’t therapy, exactly. But something about those quiet, thoughtful explanations made her feel seen. Helped her put words to things she’d buried or brushed aside—how she often confused space with safety, or how her silence wasn’t strength but fear disguised as control.
She’d even started jotting down little notes in her sketchbook, in the margins between thumbnail doodles and color palettes. Just a word or two: Communicate. Be clear. Stay, even when it’s hard.
It helped. Not all at once, but a little bit at a time. Enough to notice the patterns she didn’t want to repeat. Enough to start choosing something different.
It hadn’t always been fair. She could admit that now.
There were patterns in her—moments where she pulled away not because she didn’t care, but because she cared too much and didn’t know how to stay. Where she held back love out of fear it would run dry. But the time away, the distance from everything, had helped her see that fear didn’t have to be a compass.
She could want more.
She could ask for more.
She could communicate more.
With her knees pulled up to her chest, Freen reached for her phone and tapped on her mom’s contact.
The call connected quickly.
“Mae,” she said softly, and her mom’s cheerful voice rang through.
It didn’t take long to share the news. Her mom let out a delighted squeal, followed by the sound of pots clanging in the background.
“I'm so proud of you, lukk !” Freen could imagine her mom’s wide smile, “You're always my talented daughter.”
Freen laughed, cheeks warm, heart full.
After the call ended, she sat there for another few seconds, the good kind of silence settling around her. Then she opened LINE.
It was Becky’s lunch break. She checked the time—yep, just past 12:30.
freen: guess what?
freen: TENTACLES accepted me.
freen: starting next week 😭😭😭
It didn’t even take a full minute before the typing bubble popped up.
becky: WHATTTT
becky: OMG FREENNN 😭🩷🩷🩷 I’M SO PROUD OF YOUUUU
becky: that’s literally perfect for u. u better be celebrating rn.
freen: still in my pajamas ngl
freen: does eating instant noodles count as a celebration?
becky: huhhh r u serious
becky: u need to take me to a cute cafe to celebrate properly
freen: isn’t it the OTHER way around…??
Freen grinned down at her screen. Her heart felt light.
They kept texting for a bit—joking, half-flirting, slipping in those small familiar comforts that had built between them over time. But there was something different about it now. Less tiptoeing. Less tension. Like they were both finally breathing in sync.
As the conversation lulled, Freen set her phone down. Let her eyes wander to the window where the sky was clear blue. The light was soft. The city beyond felt distant but not cold.
She was in a good place.
So was Becky, she could feel it.
And for the first time in a long while, the idea of more didn’t scare her.
She thought about asking.
About turning their quiet thing into something defined. About reaching out, not waiting.
But then, she smiled to herself, leaning her cheek into her palm.
Not yet.
She’ll know when it’s the right moment.
Until then, Freen was okay sitting in this warmth just for a little bit more. Letting it bloom slow and sure.