Where Have You Gone

Chapter 4️⃣2️⃣

Shortly after Freen left Irin came back. Becky felt that the room is too much for her, she denied Irin's company and decided to have a cup of tea in the hospital café.

The café was nearly empty, save for the soft clatter of dishes behind the counter and the low hum of a coffee machine that never seemed to rest. Becky sat near the far wall, the blind corner—where no one accidentally brushed past her, where silence felt just a little more complete.

Her fingers curled around a paper cup of tea, gone cold long ago. She hadn’t even taken a sip.

The familiar weight of waiting had settled into her bones again.

She hated this feeling.

Not the fear. She could survive fear. It was the helplessness—like being trapped in someone else’s story, with no pen, no voice, no say in what came next.

She didn’t hear Freen approach—not at first.

But something in the air shifted, like the way you know someone’s watching even when they haven’t spoken.

“Is this seat taken?”

The voice was gentle. Measured.

Her. Again.

Becky straightened slightly. “It’s not,” she said, carefully neutral.

Freen sat across from her, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything.

“You don’t drink cold tea, do you?” Freen asked quietly.

Becky’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Not unless I’m being punished.”

Freen stood again. Becky heard the retreating steps, the soft sound of something being poured, the hiss of steam. When she returned, she placed a new cup down with precision and care.

“Hot. A little milk.”

Becky paused. “How did you know?”

“You told the nurse earlier,” Freen said, as if that explained everything.

Becky’s fingers found the cup. Warm. Comforting.

Unsettling.

It was too much. And not enough.

“Why are you doing this?” Becky asked, her voice tight. “I’m not the patient.”

Freen didn’t respond at first. Then: “Sometimes the ones in the waiting rooms are hurting more.”

Becky’s jaw tensed. Her fingers tightened around the cup.

“That’s not your responsibility.”

Freen’s voice softened. “Maybe not. But I still care.”

The words landed like a bruise—gentle, but impossible to ignore.

Becky set the tea down, untouched.

“You talk like someone who knows me,” she whispered. “But I don’t know you.”

“I’m just your niece’s surgeon,” Freen said.

“That’s not all,” Becky said sharply, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “You’re not just anyone.”

Freen’s breath hitched—just slightly.

Becky turned her face toward her, frustration and confusion rising like heat in her throat. “You say things like they come from inside me. You look at me like I’m something you already lost.”

Silence stretched.

Painful. Fragile.

Freen forced herself to speak. “Maybe I just… recognize grief when I see it.”

Becky’s voice cracked. “Don’t pretend like you understand.”

“I’m not,” Freen said quietly. “But I’ve sat where you’re sitting. I’ve hated the world for moving when someone I loved might not.”

Becky went still.

The words dug under her skin, sharp and tender all at once.

A memory stirred—half-formed. Rain. A hand on her shoulder. A voice not unlike this one, whispering that loving someone meant staying even when it hurt.

Becky blinked hard. “You’re kind to me,” she said finally. “And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Freen’s voice was steady, but raw. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Becky reached out slowly, her fingers brushing the edge of the tea cup again. Warm. Still untouched.

She couldn’t explain it—but this stranger made her feel seen in ways that terrified her.

Like if she leaned too far into the quiet, she might find something she wasn’t ready for.

Or worse—someone she had already lost.

“I’m not ready for kindness,” Becky said, voice barely a whisper.

Freen nodded, even though Becky couldn’t see. “That’s okay. I think I'm crossing the line.”

Becky didn’t answer.

But she didn’t leave either.

And when Freen rose to go, Becky finally took a sip of the tea.

Still warm.

And just bitter enough to taste like something real.