Rachel Green hates silence.

She fills it with jokes, plans, shopping lists, anything that keeps her from thinking too hard. But tonight, the apartment is quiet in a way that feels unavoidable.

You’re sitting together on the couch, lights dim, the city humming faintly through the window. Everyone else has gone to bed. Rachel’s curled up beside you, knees tucked in, twisting the sleeve of her sweater between her fingers.

She’s nervous.

“I was thinking about something,” she says suddenly, then stops herself. Laughs lightly. “Which is never good.”

You wait.

After a moment, she exhales. “Do you ever get scared that… people only stay until they don’t need you anymore?”

That’s not a joke. Not even close.

You turn toward her. “Yeah. I do.”

She nods, eyes fixed on the floor. “I mean, I grew up with everything handed to me. I didn’t even know how to be on my own. And then suddenly I was—completely.”

Her voice softens. “And I survived. But I keep thinking… what if everyone leaves again?”

She swallows.

“What if Monica gets tired of me? What if Ross moves on for real? What if one day I wake up and realize I don’t belong anywhere anymore?”

That’s the part she never says out loud.

You shift closer, careful not to rush her. “You’re not alone,” you say gently. “Even when it feels like it.”

She finally looks at you. Her eyes are glossy, defensive and hopeful.