Chapter Text
Freen never needed big gestures.
She wasn’t the type to demand flowers or public declarations. Love, to her, was in the small things — the kind you do without anyone asking. A coat offered in the cold. A coffee ordered before she even spoke. The way her phone always lit up with “Let me know when you get home.”
That’s how she showed she cared.
And that’s how she loved Becky.
Quietly. Steadily. Completely.
⸻
They had never put a name to it. Not officially. Not in the way people expected.
The industry was always watching — always ready to twist friendship into scandal, affection into leverage.
But behind closed doors, there were truths too heavy to deny.
Becky had once fallen asleep on Freen’s shoulder between takes. Freen hadn’t moved for two hours.
Becky had once called her crying at 2AM over a script rejection. Freen had stayed on the phone until dawn, whispering, *“You’re still the best thing I’ve ever seen.”
There were moments. Unspoken, but real.
Freen thought they meant something to both of them.
⸻
She was always the one remembering.
The one waiting after shoots just to walk Becky to her car. The one texting first. The one offering her scarf when it rained — even if she’d catch a cold for it later.
Becky smiled and accepted it all. Always with a casual warmth, always with affection that felt sincere.
But she never offered anything back.
Not first.
Not fully.
Freen didn’t notice at first. She made excuses. She’s tired. She’s under pressure. She’s not good with feelings.
But over time, the ache started to grow.
A small voice inside her asking:
If she loved you the way you love her, wouldn’t she show it?
⸻
Then came the story.
Becky’s Instagram. A birthday post.
For Irin.
It was the kind of TikTok trend every couple jumped on. Their fans pleaded for a version with Freen and Becky. But Becky always said no — like some things weren’t worth pretending for.
And beneath it, a caption that knocked the air out of Freen’s chest.
“ily.”
Three letters.
Three letters she had never once seen addressed to her — not in a caption, not in a comment, not even in private.
Freen stared at it too long. Blinked until her screen blurred. Tried to pretend it didn’t matter.
But it did.
Because in that moment, everything clicked.
She was the only one who thought this was something rare.
She was the only one who’d been holding on.
She was the only one who loved in silence while Becky never looked close enough to hear it.
⸻
That night, Freen sat in her apartment, knees drawn to her chest.
She didn’t cry. Not right away.
She just sat there, letting the silence fill her chest the way Becky never had.
And for the first time, she asked herself the question she’d been avoiding:
What if she never loved me back? Not really. Not even a little.
Not the way Freen had loved her.
Not the way Freen still did.
Freen didn’t stop all at once.
It happened in pieces. Quietly. Painfully. Like peeling herself off something sticky, something that had clung to her skin so long she forgot it wasn’t part of her.
The morning after Becky’s post, Freen woke up hollow.
She didn’t eat breakfast. She didn’t open Instagram. She didn’t check if Becky had sent her anything — because deep down, she knew there would be nothing.
And she was right.
⸻
That day, they had a rehearsal. An ad campaign. A full schedule with barely time to breathe.
Freen was early, as usual.
Becky arrived fifteen minutes late, as usual.
She waltzed in with her phone in one hand and a croissant in the other. She smiled like nothing had shifted, like Freen’s world hadn’t cracked a little deeper overnight.
“Morning, Freen,” she chirped, warm and bright.
Freen smiled back. A little late. A little strained.
Becky didn’t notice.
⸻
They rehearsed the same lines again and again. Same blocking, same poses. Fans would eat it up — the way Freen looked at her, the way Becky leaned into her shoulder during breaks. The chemistry was still there.
But Freen felt something tug inside her every time Becky laughed at something she said, every time she touched her arm.
It used to mean something.
Now, it felt like watching someone act out a scene they didn’t know they were no longer in love with.
⸻
That night, Freen didn’t send her usual text: Get home safe.
Becky didn’t notice.
The next day, Freen didn’t offer to carry Becky’s extra bag when they left the set late.
Becky didn’t ask why.
When Becky texted her, hours later, “You okay?” , Freen stared at the message for a long time. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.
She typed: Yeah. Just tired.
Then deleted it.
She typed again: I saw your post.
Then deleted that too.
Finally, she just replied: All good.
And that was the truth.
Or it was trying to be.
⸻
The silence between them began to grow — not angry, not loud. Just… wide.
Like a soft field of snow between them. Untouched. Cold.
Freen stopped texting first.
Stopped checking Becky’s social media.
Stopped finding excuses to be near her.
And still — Becky didn’t chase her.
Didn’t ask where she’d gone.
Didn’t ask if she was hurting.
Didn’t ask anything.
And that hurt more than anything else.
⸻
One night, Freen stood alone in her kitchen, fingers curled around a mug she didn’t remember pouring. Her eyes burned from holding back too long.
She whispered into the air, just to hear it out loud:
“I loved you. I really did.”
She closed her eyes.
“But I don’t think you ever loved me back.”
The silence answered.
And that was when she knew.
She had to walk away.
Not because she wanted to.
But because staying was breaking her apart piece by piece — and Becky would never even see the cracks.
Freen had always believed that if someone mattered to you, you’d notice the small things.
The way they grew quieter. The way they stopped showing up. The way they stopped answering the questions you never bothered to ask.
She had always noticed everything about Becky.
The way she chewed on her lip when she was thinking. The way her eyes drifted to the window when she was overwhelmed. The way her voice dipped when she felt guilty — softer, unsure.
Freen memorized her like a favorite song. Played on repeat. Listened for every shift in tone, every hidden lyric.
She just never realized Becky hadn’t done the same.
⸻
The final click came in silence — like all the most devastating things do.
It was after another long day on set. They were filming a promotional shoot, something light, smiling, surface-deep.
Freen was already checked out — had been for weeks, really. She still did her job, still delivered the chemistry, the smiles, the angles. But her heart wasn’t there anymore.
Not with Becky.
Not like before.
After the shoot, she went to her dressing room and sat in front of the mirror. She looked at herself — at the dark circles, the forced grin, the eyes that had stopped shining when Becky entered a room.
She didn’t feel like herself anymore.
And maybe that was the clearest sign.
⸻
She opened her Notes app and scrolled.
There was a folder labeled:
“Things I Never Sent.”
Messages to Becky she had written but never shared.
• “I wish you’d see how much I care.”
• “Do you think about me the way I think about you?”
• “Is Iron what you really want, or just easier to want?”
She deleted the folder that night.
All of it.
Because what was the point of speaking when no one’s listening?
⸻
The next time Becky texted her, it was a photo.
A silly one — the two of them from months ago, backstage. Freen was laughing at something Becky had said, head thrown back, eyes crinkled.
Becky’s caption read: “This came up in my memories. Miss this day.”
Freen stared at the photo.
It hurt.
Because she didn’t miss that day — she missed every day that came before it started to feel like she was begging to be loved.
She didn’t reply.
Becky didn’t double-text.
⸻
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Freen started turning down jobs they were both cast in. Politely. Quietly. Strategically.
The first time, the management team raised eyebrows.
The second time, they asked if something was wrong.
Freen just smiled and said, “I want to focus on other projects.”
Becky never asked.
Not even once.
⸻
Freen’s absence began to grow like shadow — unspoken, but heavy.
There were no more joint interviews. No more backstage hugs. No more red carpet glances that lasted too long.
The fans noticed first. “Did something happen?” they speculated.
The agency tried to schedule another collaboration. Freen declined again.
This time, she didn’t explain.
And Becky?
Still said nothing.
Still didn’t ask why.
⸻
One evening, Freen saw Becky at a party. Not an event — just a quiet industry gathering. Wine glasses. Warm lights. Laughter like music in the background.
Becky was across the room, radiant and at ease. Talking to someone Freen didn’t recognize.
Freen stood near the window, out of view.
She watched for exactly thirty seconds.
Then she turned and left.
Not dramatically. Not out of anger.
Just… gently. Finally.
⸻
That was the moment she realized:
She had already left long ago.
Her body had just taken longer to catch up.
And maybe that was love too.
Not staying until it killed you —
but leaving while there was still something left of you to save.
Freen didn’t tell anyone.
Not her manager. Not the fans. Not Becky.
She just started saying no.
No to pair work.
No to staged moments.
No to all the fake things that once let her feel something real.
And with every “no,” a thread came undone.
She wasn’t trying to hurt Becky. That was never the point.
She just couldn’t stay in a story where her character was never truly written.
⸻
The real goodbye didn’t happen in words. It never does.
It was in the way Freen stopped lingering after wrap.
It was in how she stopped looking for Becky in the crowd.
It was when she changed her number and didn’t send it to her.
It was when she posted a photo of herself alone on a mountaintop, no caption, no tag — and didn’t check if Becky viewed the story.
She didn’t care if she did.
And that was the hardest part.
Because once, she would’ve.
⸻
The next time they were in the same room was at a panel.
Becky smiled at her across the table. A familiar smile. One that used to feel like home.
Freen returned it — polite, brief, nothing more.
And Becky… paused.
Something in her expression faltered, just for a second.
As if she finally noticed the difference.
As if she finally realized Freen wasn’t just being distant.
She was gone.
⸻
Afterward, Becky caught up to her in the hallway.
“Hey,” she said, voice light. Testing. “It’s been a while.”
Freen turned slowly. “Yeah. It has.”
Becky tilted her head. “You’ve been quiet.”
Freen gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t ask to be understood. “Just tired.”
Becky hesitated. “You okay?”
That was the question. The one Freen had answered a hundred times before with half-truths and soft deflections.
This time, she simply said, “I will be.”
And she meant it.
⸻
That night, Becky finally texted her.
“I miss you sometimes.”
Freen stared at the screen.
Not I miss you.
Not I’m sorry.
Not Come back.
Just sometimes.
And that was enough to make her delete the message without replying.
Because love — real love — doesn’t show up sometimes.
And Freen had loved her all the time.
⸻
Some people leave with slammed doors and shouted words.
Freen left with silence.
Not because she wanted Becky to hurt — but because she had finally accepted that she couldn’t be the only one who stayed.
⸻
She lay in bed that night and whispered into the dark,
“Goodbye.”
Not to punish.
Just to let go.
Becky
It started with space.
A little at first. The kind she didn’t notice — a longer reply, a missed call, a skipped dinner.
Freen had always been the steady one. The one who remembered her coffee order. The one who never let her leave a room without feeling like she was someone worth staying for.
Becky got used to that.
So when it stopped, she didn’t notice right away.
But eventually, space turned to absence.
And absence turned into silence.
And by the time she realized Freen was gone, there was nothing left to hold onto.
⸻
The first time she cried over it, it was raining.
She was scrolling through her camera roll and found a video. One she’d forgotten she took. It was Freen, sitting on Becky’s floor in sweatpants, painting Becky’s toenails while humming something tuneless under her breath.
Becky had asked, “Why are you so nice to me?”
And Freen had looked up, eyes soft, and said, “Because you’re the only thing I never get tired of.”
Becky never said anything back.
She just laughed.
That video was from over a year ago.
Becky cried for an hour.
⸻
She tried reaching out once more.
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
Freen didn’t reply.
Not in words.
Not ever again.
⸻
Freen
She saw the message.
She even typed a reply.
“I think about you too.”
“I still miss you.”
“I loved you. So much.”
But she never hit send.
Because Becky never asked her to stay when she still had the chance.
And now, Freen had nothing left to give.
⸻
Some nights, it still hurt.
The kind of pain that doesn’t come from betrayal, but from being invisible to someone you gave your heart to.
But there was peace now, too.
A quietness she had never known when she was loving someone who never loved her back.
She didn’t hate Becky.
She just… wasn’t waiting anymore.
⸻
She stood by the river one morning, the sky soft with early light, and whispered a goodbye no one heard.
Then she walked forward, into a life where her love would finally be returned someday.
Not by Becky.
But by someone who saw her the way she had always seen her.
Fully.
Completely.
First.