Rachel moves for work, but can’t let go

Rachel Greene always talked big about chasing her dreams—Paris, Milan, New York, anywhere fashion lived and breathed. But when the call finally came, offering her a real chance in another city… she froze.

You were the first person she told.

“I mean—it’s amazing, right?” she said, pacing Monica’s living room while you sat on the couch. “It’s huge. It’s everything I trained for. It’s—”

She stopped pacing.

“It’s far away.”

That part scared her more than she wanted to admit.

Still, she went. Because Rachel was brave even when she didn’t feel like it.

The distance hit harder than either of you expected.

At first, Rachel tried to play it cool—daily calls, funny texts, selfies of bad hair days, dramatic rants about coworkers. But then days got busier. Nights got longer. Schedules got messier.

And Rachel started missing you in ways she couldn’t put words to.

She’d be standing in the middle of a designer showroom, surrounded by silk and lighting and opportunity—yet her mind would slip to the way you used to hand her coffee every morning… or how you always listened even when her stories made no sense.

One night, after a brutal day, she video-called you without warning.

Her makeup was smudged, her hair messy, her voice tired.

“I hate this,” she blurted.

You blinked. “Hate what?”

“This—” She gestured around her tiny new apartment, her hectic life, her lonely nights. “Not talking to you the second something happens. Not walking across the hall and bothering you. Not… not being there.”

She sat down on her bed, shoulders slumping.

“I thought I could just go and be fine,” she said quietly. “But I miss you. It’s like my day doesn’t start until I hear your voice.”

The screen shook slightly—she was trembling.

“I know this is stupid,” she said. “We’re not even—well, we’re not anything, but—”

“Rachel,” you interrupted softly. “We are something.”

She froze.

And suddenly her eyes softened, filling with relief she didn’t hide this time.

“That’s what scares me,” she whispered.

Silence hummed between you—soft, warm, full.

Rachel wiped her eyes, trying to smile. “I don’t want to let go,” she admitted. “Not of you. Not of… whatever this is.”

You leaned closer to the camera. “You don’t have to.”

Her breath caught.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

For the first time since she’d moved, her smile looked real—gentle and hopeful.

Rachel pulled her blanket tighter around herself, settling in like she always used to when she came over after a long day.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Then talk to me until I fall asleep?”