Finding a way back to her!

Becky Armstrong sprawled comfortably on the floor of Freen Sarocha’s room, her elbows propped on a pillow as she examined every corner. Freen’s space was exactly what she expected—neat, orderly, and minimalistic, much like Freen herself. But one unexpected item caught Becky’s eye—a guitar leaning quietly against the wall.

“Wait a second,” Becky said, sitting upright. “You play guitar?”

Freen, who was tidying up the corner of her desk, froze briefly before glancing at Becky. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?!” Becky exclaimed, her eyes lighting up as she scrambled toward the guitar. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? Can I play it?”

Freen hesitated, her expression guarded. “I don’t usually let anyone touch it.”

“Come on, Freen!” Becky said, her voice practically pleading. “Just a quick strum. I promise I won’t break it.”

Freen sighed, her fingers brushing her glasses as she debated internally. Finally, she nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But be careful.”

“Careful is my middle name!” Becky declared, picking up the guitar with all the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning.

Freen muttered under her breath, “That’s debatable.”

Becky grinned as she plopped back onto the floor and began plucking at the strings. Her technique was far from refined, but her excitement more than made up for her lack of skill. “Hey, this thing sounds great! It’s like magic.”

“It’s an instrument, not magic,” Freen said matter-of-factly, though her lips twitched faintly at Becky’s childlike enthusiasm.

“Same difference,” Becky shot back with a wink. After a few awkward chords, she looked at Freen with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Okay, your turn. Play something for me.”

Freen shook her head quickly, her hands instinctively tightening into fists. “No.”

“Why not?” Becky asked, pouting dramatically. “You have a guitar. That means you *must* play it. It’s like a rule.”

“I prefer playing when I’m alone,” Freen replied, adjusting her glasses. “It’s... easier.”

“But I’m fun company,” Becky said, scooting closer. “Come on, Freen. One song. Just one.”

Freen frowned, her hesitation clear. “I don’t think so.”

“Please?” Becky begged, clasping her hands together like she was praying. “Pretty please? I’ll bring you jasmine tea every day for a week!”

“You already do that,” Freen pointed out.

“Okay, fine. Two weeks.”

Freen sighed deeply, her resolve crumbling under Becky’s relentless pleading. “One song,” she said reluctantly, taking the guitar from Becky’s hands. “But don’t laugh.”

Becky raised a hand solemnly. “I swear I won’t.”

Freen sat quietly for a moment, tuning the strings and adjusting her grip. Her expression softened as she strummed the first few notes, a delicate melody filling the room. Becky watched in quiet amazement as Freen’s fingers moved effortlessly across the fretboard, the music growing richer and more soulful with every chord.

“You’re really good,” Becky murmured, her voice soft with awe.

Freen didn’t respond, her focus entirely on the music. After a few verses, she stopped and glanced at Becky. “Satisfied?”

“Not even close,” Becky said with a grin. “Sing.”

Freen blinked, staring at Becky like she’d just sprouted a second head. “No.”

“Yes!” Becky insisted, her grin widening. “Come on, Freen. You can’t just play a pretty song and not sing. That’s like eating half a chocolate bar and leaving the other half untouched. Unacceptable!”

“I don’t sing in front of people,” Freen said, shaking her head firmly. “It’s—”

“You sing in front of me,” Becky interrupted, her tone teasing but persistent. “Freen, I’m not ‘people.’ I’m Becky. Sing for me.”

The determination in Becky’s voice left Freen no room for escape. She sighed again, setting her fingers back on the strings. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if you laugh, I’m stopping.”

Becky mimed zipping her lips and throwing away the imaginary key, her excitement barely contained.

Freen took a deep breath and began to sing. Her voice was soft at first, almost hesitant, but as the melody grew, so did her confidence. Becky listened intently, her expression shifting from playful to completely entranced. Freen’s voice was beautiful—gentle yet powerful, full of depth and emotion that Becky hadn’t expected.

As Freen sang, she realized something she hadn’t allowed herself to admit before. Becky’s presence wasn’t just comforting; it was grounding. The chaos that usually overwhelmed Freen felt distant, almost manageable, when Becky was around. Her teasing, her laughter, her unyielding determination—it all made Freen feel less alone, less adrift. And as the final notes of the song faded, Freen understood, with startling clarity, that she loved Becky.

Becky broke the silence with a soft smile. “Freen... that was amazing.”

Freen avoided Becky’s gaze, her fingers lightly grazing the strings. “You exaggerate.”

“I never exaggerate when it comes to good music,” Becky said, her grin widening. “Seriously, Freen, you’re incredible.”

Freen’s cheeks flushed faintly, her heart racing in a way she couldn’t quite explain. “Thank you.”

Becky leaned back, her hands behind her head. “You know, you should sing more often. You’ve got a talent that shouldn’t be wasted.”

Freen tilted her head, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “Only if you stop calling me a nerd.”

“No promises,” Becky replied with a wink.

And as they sat together, the guitar resting between them, Freen realized she didn’t mind the teasing—or the chaos—when it came from Becky. She was the one person who could truly ground her, and for Freen, that was enough.