One More Time (FreenBecky)

Becky's POV:

It's been days since the accident.

Days since the last time I saw her eyes open.
Days since I heard her voice.

Freen hasn't attended any of our project meetings, so I stepped in. I had to. She worked too hard to build everything from nothing, and I won't let her effort crumble because of what happened. Every meeting, every presentation, every file I touch—I can almost hear her voice guiding me, her calm tone saying "Take your time, Becky. Don't rush the point."

And so, I push through. For her. For us.

But it's strange—without Freen's presence, the office feels heavier. Too quiet. No teasing, no laughter echoing in the meeting room. Fay and Win tried to fill the silence, but it wasn't the same. Everyone misses her.

I miss her.

At home, everything looks perfect. Bright... he's perfect now. Too perfect, maybe.

Every morning, he wakes me up with breakfast already set on the table. My favorite coffee, the exact sweetness I like. Every night, he asks the same question—soft, steady, rehearsed:
"Babe, are you okay? Did you eat enough? Need anything before bed?"

And I nod. Every single time.
"Yes, I'm fine."

But inside, I'm not.

Because something in me can't feel him anymore.

It's like I'm living with a version of Bright that's trying too hard to be everything he never was. A gentle husband, an understanding man, a reformed sinner.
He says all the right words, touches me with all the right gestures—but none of it reaches me.

I don't feel him. Not really. Not the way I should.

Sometimes, I catch him watching me too long, his eyes searching for something—maybe the old version of me, the woman who once looked at him with warmth and love.
But she's gone.
Buried under too many apologies, too many nights of pain that "sorry" can't erase.

And the worst part?

I don't even know if it's guilt, confusion, or something deeper that's making my heart ache for someone else. Someone who's lying in a hospital bed, probably thinking of everything but me.

I shouldn't feel this way.
But I do.

And every time I close my eyes, I see Freen's face—not the pale, bruised one from that night—but the one smiling at me under the soft glow of sunset by the beach, wind tangled in her hair, voice full of laughter.

That's the Freen I can't stop missing.

And maybe... that's the problem.

Thursday morning.

Everything looks normal—emails, meetings, reports. The same office routine I've been drowning myself in for days just to stop thinking. But no matter how busy I pretend to be, my mind keeps wandering back to that hospital room, to the quiet rise and fall of Freen's chest, to her stillness that terrified me.

I get up to hand a few documents to my assistant. The floor smells faintly of coffee and paper, like every other morning. And then—

"Khun Becky."

It's Bright's PA. She's walking fast, a few folders clutched tightly to her chest. Something about her expression looks off—nervous, maybe.

I stop her.
"What's that?"