How to be loved

77 - The waiting has ended

How to be loved

77 – The waiting has ended

Freen's POV

"Maybe she doesn't believe in marriage," Nam said, tilting her head slightly as her eyes flicked toward me. "Didn't she ask you to move in with her?"

"But she proposed to her ex-girlfriend," Mind added, her voice soft but unwavering—like a quiet truth that refused to be ignored.

Nam raised an eyebrow, turning back to me with a sharper edge to her curiosity. "So which do you think it is?"

Mind sighed, folding her arms gently across her chest. "All this guessing could end if you just asked your girlfriend, Freen."

"I... I can't," I said, the words crawling out of my throat. "I don't know how to ask without humiliating myself."

Nam's teasing demeanor faded. She studied me with a seriousness I didn't expect.

"Freen," she said more gently this time, "you're not someone who shames easily. What are you really afraid of?"

I looked down at my coffee mug, fingers tracing the rim like it held something sacred. The thought of asking Becky outright—of inviting an answer I wasn't ready to hear—felt like walking blindfolded toward a ledge.

"That she'll say I'm not the one," I whispered. "That I'm just temporary. A rebound. Someone she's willing to live with, but not someone she'd ever want to marry."

Silence settled between us, thick and understanding. It wasn't judgment that filled the space—it was care. And the ache of friends who could only watch you hurt yourself from the inside out.

Mind reached out, her hand finding mine, warm and steady. "You won't know unless you ask. But you can't live in a question forever, Freen. That's not fair—to you or her."

I opened my mouth to reply, but the words never came.

"Hey, baby. Are you okay?"

Becky's voice pulled me out of the memory like a tide yanking me from the shore.

I blinked, returning to the present—the soft hum of the car, the filtered sunlight pouring through the tinted windows, the low murmur of tires on asphalt. We were in the backseat, Becky and I, while the driver navigated the winding road toward her villa outside the city.

"Hmm?" I cleared my throat, forcing the emotion back down. "Yeah. I'm... I'm okay."

She was looking at me, head tilted slightly, concern barely masked behind her usual calm. Her hand found mine, fingers lacing gently, almost absentmindedly. To anyone else, we might've looked picture-perfect. Peaceful. Effortless.

But inside, I was anything but.

She'd said we needed a break—a weekend away to escape the noise of the city, the stress of our schedules. And I came with her because saying no would've felt like rejecting peace. Like admitting there was something wrong.

But there was something wrong. At least, inside me.

It wasn't that I didn't appreciate the gesture. It was thoughtful, even romantic in the way she always is when she decides to be. But underneath the stillness of the drive, the landscape rushing past us in streaks of green and gold, my chest was tight with everything I hadn't said.

I hadn't wanted to come. Not because I didn't want to be with her—but because it felt like I was pretending. Pretending that I didn't have this growing ache inside me, this question lodged in my throat like a splinter: Would you ever want to marry me? Or am I just a comfortable pause in your life?