Month Two — September
September didn't announce itself.
It just continued August's rhythm — but slightly tighter, slightly sharper.
The first few days were normal.
Tests approaching. Teachers impatient. Class more restless than usual.
Priyanshi still texted at night.
Still sent occasional voice notes.
Still complained about small things.
But Honey had begun noticing timing.
If she replied late, he checked the clock.
If she sent a message earlier than usual, he felt steadier.
He didn't label it.
He just observed himself observing.
The shift began one afternoon during lunch break.
Uday was talking animatedly about something — a match, a teacher, something irrelevant.
Priyanshi was laughing.
Not the polite laugh she used in front of teachers.
A real one.
Head tilted slightly back.
Honey had heard that laugh before.
On voice notes.
On calls.
But hearing it freely directed toward someone else — someone sitting right there — made something tighten faintly inside him.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't even jealousy.
It was displacement.
Like he had mistaken proximity for exclusivity.
He said nothing.
He smiled when appropriate.
But the moment stayed.
That evening, she texted normally.
"Today was chaotic."
He replied, "Because of class?"
"And people."
He almost typed: "You and Uday seemed fine."
He deleted it.
Instead:
"Yeah."
She sent a voice note a little later.
She was laughing again while narrating something Uday had said.
Honey listened quietly.
He replayed it once.
This time, the laugh felt different.
Not comforting.
Just… distant.
He hated that he noticed.
The next few days, nothing obvious changed.
They still talked.
Still exchanged homework.
Still shared random complaints.
But Honey had begun comparing.
When she laughed at something he said, he noticed whether it was the same tone.
When she replied quickly to Uday in class but took longer to reply to him at night, he noticed that too.
He didn't want to notice.
But he did.
Mid-September, something small but sharp happened.
During a group activity, Uday leaned over her notebook, explaining something loudly.
They were close.
Not inappropriately.
Just practically.
Honey looked once.
Then looked away.
For the rest of the period, he was quieter than usual.
No one pointed it out.
Not even himself.
That evening, her message came later than usual.
"Sorry. Stayed back talking."
He read it.
Didn't ask with whom.
But the question lingered.
He typed:
"No problem."
Sent it.
Then placed his phone face down.
For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel steady.
He felt uncertain.
That night, while lying in the dark, he replayed an old voice note from August.
The one where she had laughed casually about something small.
He listened carefully.
The laugh was the same.
The tone was the same.
The difference wasn't her.
It was him.
And that realization unsettled him more than anything else.
By the end of September, Honey understood something without saying it aloud.
Her world was not centered around him.
It never had been.
He had simply grown used to occupying a quiet, reliable space in it.
Now that space felt… less defined.
Not removed.
Just shared.
And sharing felt heavier than he expected.
He didn't call it jealousy.
He didn't call it love.
But for the first time, routine no longer felt neutral.
It felt fragile.