At first, it was easy to pretend nothing had changed.
The days still followed familiar patterns. Classes, walks across campus, shared meals when schedules allowed. We still laughed at the same things. Still reached for each other without thinking. If someone asked, we would have said everything was fine—and believed it.
That was the dangerous part.
The first sign appeared quietly, disguised as convenience.
She joined a student group she hadn't mentioned before. Nothing serious, she said. Just something to try. The meetings were irregular, the hours unpredictable.
"I might be late today," she told me one afternoon, already packing her bag.
"That's fine," I said. And I meant it.
She smiled, relieved. "I'll text."
She did.
Later than expected.
Shorter than usual.
Running behind. Talk later?
I stared at the message longer than necessary before replying.
Sure.
I didn't feel upset.
I didn't feel abandoned.
I just felt… adjusted.
The next few days followed a similar rhythm.
Plans shifted slightly. Conversations shortened, not in content but in duration. We still talked about our days, but the details thinned, as if we were unconsciously editing ourselves.
One evening, while walking together toward the station, she mentioned someone from her group.
"He's funny," she said. "In an annoying way."
I nodded. "That's a specific category."
She laughed. "You'd hate him."
"I probably would."
The comment lingered longer than it should have.
Not because of what she said—but because of how easily she said it. Like the information didn't require consideration. Like it was already sorted somewhere safe.
I told myself that was a good thing.
We sat together in the café later that week, books open but unread. Outside, rain tapped lightly against the windows, blurring the world into soft shapes.
"You've been quiet," she said.
"Just tired."
She studied me for a moment. "You've been saying that a lot."
"Have I?"
She nodded. "A little."
I didn't know what to say to that.
Because the truth was, I wasn't tired.
I was attentive.
I had begun noticing small absences. Not moments where she wasn't there—but moments where she was, and something else was too. Somewhere her attention rested just a little beyond where I stood.
She checked her phone more often now.
Not constantly. Not rudely. Just enough to notice.
Once, while we were sitting together outside after class, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, typed a quick reply, then turned back to me.
"Sorry," she said.
"It's fine."
And it was.
But something about the apology felt premature—like she'd anticipated a reaction I hadn't had yet.
That night, I thought about asking her about it.
Not accusingly.
Just openly.
But the moment passed.
I didn't want to sound like I was keeping score.
The first real misunderstanding happened on an ordinary evening.
We'd planned to meet after her meeting ended. Nothing elaborate. Just dinner somewhere nearby. I waited outside the building, leaning against the railing, watching people come and go.
Time passed.
I checked my phone once.
Then again.
When she finally appeared, she looked surprised to see me still there.
"Oh," she said. "You waited."
"I said I would."
She hesitated. "I thought you'd already gone."
Something in her tone—casual, unguarded—caught me off balance.
"I didn't mind," I said.
"I know," she replied quickly. "I just… it ran longer than I thought."
We walked in silence for a few minutes after that.
Not an uncomfortable one.
Just unfamiliar.
Later, over dinner, she talked animatedly about what they'd discussed, about ideas and plans and people whose names I was still learning. I listened, nodding at the right moments, smiling when she did.
"You don't seem very interested," she said lightly.
"I am," I replied.
She tilted her head. "Are you sure?"
The question wasn't confrontational.
It was curious.
And that made it harder.
"I just don't always know where I fit into these conversations," I said.
She blinked, surprised. "You don't have to fit."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
I searched for the answer and came up empty.
"There isn't one," I said finally.
She accepted that, or at least chose to.
We walked home together after, closer than before, as if proximity could smooth out what words hadn't.
But that night, lying awake, I realized something unsettling.
We were both adjusting.
Not away from each other—but around each other. Making space. Redefining edges. Testing how much room we could take without asking.
And none of it felt intentional.
The next time she canceled plans, I told her it was fine before she finished explaining.
The next time I stayed late on campus, I didn't message her right away.
We were learning new habits.
Not because we wanted distance.
Because life had begun offering us more than one direction at a time.
When we met again after a few days apart, she smiled easily, slipping back into familiarity like nothing had happened.
And maybe nothing had.
But as we walked side by side, I noticed how our steps no longer matched automatically. One of us always had to adjust first.
I couldn't tell which one it was.
And I couldn't tell when that had started to matter.