Month one- August
August arrived soaked.
Not with heavy storms every day, but with that constant dampness that never quite leaves. Classroom walls smelled faintly of moisture. Chalk didn't write smoothly. Windows stayed half-open, half-stuck.
School had moved past the "new term" energy. Everything was functioning on routine now.
And routine is where small changes hide best.
The first week of August felt ordinary.
Attendance. Notes. Mild scoldings. Laughter in the back rows.
Priyanshi behaved the same.
Honey behaved the same.
At least outwardly.
On Monday, during the third period, rain started mid-lecture. Not dramatic thunder — just steady drops tapping against the metal shades outside the windows.
A few students turned their heads to look.
Priyanshi didn't.
But she stopped writing.
Her pen hovered above the page for a second longer than necessary.
Honey noticed.
He didn't react.
He didn't look at her directly.
But he stored it.
That evening, at 6:58 PM, his phone buzzed.
"Still raining."
He looked outside his own window.
It wasn't.
"Stopped here," he replied.
"Lucky."
That was all.
But he thought about that paused pen again.
Mid-week, a small test was announced suddenly.
The classroom atmosphere shifted. Whispered comparisons. Mild panic.
Priyanshi texted that night:
"Did you finish chapter 4?"
"Almost."
"Send pic."
He did.
Five minutes later:
"You explain better than the book."
He read that twice.
Replied casually:
"Book is boring."
She reacted with a single laughing emoji.
The conversation ended there.
But he found himself scrolling back to that line once before sleeping.
Not to admire it.
Just… to re-read.
Second week of August.
Something subtle began forming.
Not emotional.
Habitual.
Her notifications started blending into the structure of his evenings.
After dinner — message.
Before sleep — short check-in.
Sometimes a voice note.
One night she sent one unexpectedly.
2 minutes 04 seconds.
He pressed play immediately.
She was talking about nothing serious. How the teacher mispronounced someone's name again. How Uday almost laughed in class.
Her tone was relaxed.
Comfortable.
At one point she said his name while narrating something.
Not formally.
Just naturally.
He replayed that part once after it ended.
Not because it was important.
Just because it felt… familiar.
He locked the phone.
Then unlocked it again ten minutes later and replayed the full voice note.
He told himself he had missed something.
Maybe he had.
There was a day she didn't text at all.
Wednesday.
The day moved normally.
But around 8 PM, Honey checked the chat.
Last message — from him. Yesterday.
He didn't send another one.
He placed the phone aside.
Picked it up again.
Still nothing.
At 10:22 PM:
"Sorry. Busy day."
He read it.
Replied:
"It's fine."
And it was.
But his shoulders had relaxed without permission.
He noticed that.
And didn't question it.
During a group activity in class, students were rearranged randomly.
Priyanshi ended up in a different corner of the room.
They barely interacted the whole period.
Yet when the bell rang and the noise swelled, she glanced across the room once.
Not seeking attention.
Just checking.
Their eyes met briefly.
That was enough.
Later that night, she sent:
"Today felt off."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
He didn't push.
He just stayed in the chat until her tone lightened.
That became their unspoken role.
She didn't bring heavy emotions.
He didn't demand explanations.
Toward the end of August, the rains slowed.
Humidity remained.
Exams were still weeks away.
Life felt suspended in routine.
One Sunday afternoon, Honey was clearing his gallery.
Random screenshots. Notes. Unnecessary downloads.
He paused at a picture she had sent two weeks earlier — her notebook with careless handwriting and a small coffee stain on the corner.
He almost deleted it.
Then didn't.
Not because it meant something.
Just because it didn't feel unnecessary.
He moved on.
That evening she sent:
"You alive?"
"Yeah."
"Okay."
Conversation ended.
But he noticed something simple.
If her message didn't come, the day felt slightly incomplete.
Not dramatic.
Not painful.
Just… misaligned.
And when it did come, things aligned again.
The last night of August, rain returned briefly.
She sent a short voice note.
"Sleep early. Don't overthink."
He smiled faintly in the dark.
He replayed it once.
Then placed his phone closer to his pillow instead of the desk.
Not intentionally.
Just without thought.
August ended quietly.
Nothing explosive.
No emotional realization.
Just this:
Her presence had begun to weave into his routine.
And routine, repeated long enough, starts becoming necessary.
He still didn't call it anything.
He didn't need to.