How to be loved

How to be loved

71 – Leave, and we're over

Freen's POV

The date night didn't happen. Becky had called earlier in the day, her tone apologetic yet firm. She was staying late at the office, wrapping up another project. I understood, of course. In two months, she'd be leaving Armstrong Advertising to build her own agency, and I knew how much this transition meant to her. Still, I hadn't expected her not to come home at all.

At first, I tried to stay calm, convincing myself she must've fallen asleep at the office or gotten caught up in work. She had a habit of doing that, especially when deadlines loomed. But as the hours ticked by, anxiety crept in, tightening its grip around my chest. By morning, when I realized she hadn't returned, my heart ached with a mix of worry and frustration.

I'd wanted to go to her office, to see her with my own eyes and confirm she was okay. But I couldn't. My own commitments were calling—I had the final shoot for a campaign today. It demanded every ounce of my focus, though my thoughts drifted to her far too often. By the time the shoot wrapped, exhaustion weighed heavy on me, but the emptiness in our apartment was heavier still.

Three days. We hadn't seen each other for almost three days straight. We were living under the same roof but might as well have been worlds apart. And I hated it.

The sun sank below the horizon, and another evening stretched ahead of me. Becky had sent a brief text earlier, saying she had dinner with a client at seven. I told myself she'd probably be home by ten. Eleven passed, and then midnight loomed. The apartment was too quiet, the flicker of the TV doing little to distract me. My phone stayed stubbornly silent.

Where was she?

Missing her was like an ache in my chest that refused to fade. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I went to our bedroom, hoping to find some piece of her that might bring me comfort. My eyes landed on her coat draped over the chair. It was from the other day—the one she'd tossed aside in her rush out the door.

I reached for it and held it close, inhaling the faint scent of her perfume still lingering in the fabric. It was pathetic, really, but I couldn't help myself. Maybe it was the hormones making everything worse—my period had left me feeling raw and vulnerable—but the distance between us felt unbearable. How had we gone from sharing everything to this?

As I wrapped myself in her coat, something in its pocket pressed against me. Curious, I reached in and pulled out a small stack of photographs. My breath caught the moment I saw them.

They were of me. And Noey.

The first few were innocent enough—moments from a gathering or event where Noey and I had been talking, smiling, standing close. But the last photo made my stomach drop. It was crumpled, as though someone had tried to destroy it but couldn't bring themselves to finish the job.

I smoothed it out with trembling hands. In the image, Noey was kissing my forehead. Her lips brushed against my skin with a sweetness that felt too intimate, too wrong. I recognized the moment—it had been fleeting, unimportant at the time. But seeing it now, out of context, it looked damning.

I could only imagine what Becky must have thought when she saw these. The weight of guilt crushed me. Was this why she'd been so distant? Was she burying herself in work to avoid confronting this?

The need to see her, to explain everything, was overwhelming. I grabbed my car keys, determined to find her. I didn't care if she was still at dinner or at the office—I had to fix this.

But as I opened the front door, I froze.

Becky was there.

She was slumped on the floor just outside, her back against the doorframe. Her blazer was wrinkled, her usually neat hair disheveled, and the faint smell of alcohol lingered in the cold night air. Her head lolled slightly to the side, her eyes half-closed. She looked utterly defeated.