Where Have You Gone

Chapter 4️⃣6️⃣

The hospital walls were quieter today. Not silent—but softened, as if even the machines had decided to breathe more gently.

Becky sat in the chair beside Anne’s bed, her hand resting lightly atop her niece’s, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of life beneath her fingertips. The faint beep of the monitor was no longer a sound of dread—it was reassurance. Proof.

Anne was okay.

The surgery had gone well. That’s what Freen had said. What Richie had clung to with tears in his eyes. What Irin whispered over and over, like a prayer turned fact.

But Becky hadn’t slept.

Her body ached from holding so much stillness, her mind cycling through flashes of sound—Freen’s voice calling orders in the OR, the soft gasp in Richie’s throat when they’d wheeled Anne out, the way Irin had buried her face into Becky’s shoulder and cried.

And underneath it all: that voice.

Freen.

She hadn’t spoken to her since last night, when the surgeon had returned with exhaustion buried in her eyes, Becky could feel. The moment had been brief—too brief—but Becky had known. Freen had poured something of herself into Anne’s heart. Left something behind.

Now, morning light filtered through the window, warm against Becky’s cheek.

She heard the door open.

Footsteps. Confident, quiet, familiar.

“Becky?” It was Faye.

Becky sat up straighter. “Good morning, Doctor Faye.”

“How many times have I told you, Just Faye,” she said gently. “I'm off-duty this morning. Thought I’d check in before rounds.”

Her tone was bright, but Becky didn’t miss the pause she made near the foot of the bed, the way her breath hitched at the sight of her.

Faye had always been kind. Funny, too. Becky liked her.

She just didn’t know what to do with the way Faye’s voice sometimes softened when she said her name. Or how she lingered when Becky turned her head in her direction. There was something warm in it. Gentle. Hopeful.

But Becky had no space left in her heart for maybes.

Still, she smiled faintly. “Anne’s stable?”

“Very.” Faye moved closer, the sound of her coat brushing against her thigh. “Vitals look strong. Her oxygen’s good. She’s a fighter.”

“She is,” Becky murmured.

There was a pause.

“Freen did something incredible,” Faye said, quieter now. “I’ve seen her operate before, but yesterday… it was like watching someone carve a miracle.”

Becky turned her face toward the window, the sunlight catching the edge of her lashes.

“She sounded... different,” she admitted. “Focused. But not detached. Like Anne mattered.”

“She did.” Faye’s voice held something complicated. “Freen doesn’t say much, but she feels everything. She just hides it better than most.”

Another beat of silence.

“I think she stayed here all night,” Faye added. “Didn’t want to go home.”

Becky’s chest tightened. “Where is she now?”

Faye hesitated.

“In her personal room,” she said finally. “Hasn’t left since the surgery ended.”

---

Down the hall

Freen stood at the massive sink, hands resting on the edge of the counter, her shoulders hunched. Her coat was gone. Her hair was tied back messily. She looked like she hadn’t slept—and she hadn’t.

She had sat beside Anne’s chart until dawn, reading it, rereading it, writing notes that didn’t need to be written.

But it wasn’t Anne she was afraid of losing now.

It was Becky.

Every time she heard Becky’s voice, it sent something splintering through her. That softness, still edged in grief. The care she carried so quietly.

Becky didn’t know who she was.

Didn’t know how much it cost Freen to keep it that way.

She didn’t know about Sam.

Not yet.

Freen splashed cold water on her face and braced her hands against the sink again.

She hadn’t meant to feel this much again.

She hadn’t meant to fall in love with the same person—twice.

---

Back in the room

Richie and Irin returned just before noon, with coffee and tear-streaked smiles. Irin sat beside her daughter, stroking Anne’s hair as if afraid to stop. Richie nodded to Becky, his voice thick. “They say she’s doing great.”

Becky gave a soft hum of agreement, fingers still wrapped around Anne’s hand.

And then Freen entered.

The energy shifted—Becky felt it immediately. Not just the quiet hush of someone with presence, but something… deeper. Something that curled around the room’s edges and pulled at her chest.

Richie stood. “Doctor.”

“Freen, please,” she said gently.

She checked the monitors, spoke quietly with the nurse, and then turned toward Becky.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said, not as a question.

“Neither did you.”

Freen let out the softest laugh, barely there. “Touché.”

There was silence. Not heavy, but charged.

Then Freen said, low and certain, “You can rest today, Becky. I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Becky hesitated.

Then nodded.

Freen’s hand brushed her shoulder—light, brief, but electric.

Faye, standing by the door, watched it all with a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. A smile that didn’t quite reach.

But she said nothing.

Just turned to Irin and offered to grab tea for everyone.

As the room began to settle into this strange, fragile rhythm—hope laced with exhaustion—Becky exhaled for the first time in what felt like days.

Maybe, just maybe, everything broken inside her had begun to shift.

Not healing yet. But moving.

And Freen—

Freen was still here.