The first time Iqra heard Tannu's name, it didn't mean anything.
It was just a name in a sentence, spoken casually, the way Pritam mentioned new classmates or random people from coaching.
"There's this girl, Tannu," he had said one afternoon, almost absentmindedly, while they were walking home, "she's actually really funny."
Iqra had smiled.
She always smiled.
"Is she funnier than me?" she teased lightly, expecting him to laugh and say something reassuring.
He didn't.
He just shrugged playfully and said, "Different kind of funny."
Different.
It was such a small word.
But small words sometimes stay longer than big ones.
After that, Tannu started appearing more often — in stories, in screenshots, in offhand comments that felt harmless but slowly began to fill spaces that once belonged to Iqra.
"She said something so stupid today, you would've laughed."
"She listens, you know? Like actually listens."
Iqra nodded every time.
Of course she listens, she wanted to say. I've been listening for years.
But she didn't.
Because jealousy feels ugly when you say it out loud.
And she didn't want to be ugly.
One night, when her phone stayed silent longer than usual, she told herself not to overthink.
Maybe he's busy.
Maybe he's tired.
Maybe it's nothing.
But when the notification finally came, it wasn't "Are you awake?"
It was:
"Sorry, was talking to Tannu."
Talking.
Such a normal word.
Such a painful one.
Iqra stared at the message longer than she should have, her chest tightening in a way she couldn't explain without sounding dramatic.
She typed, deleted, typed again.
"Ohhh okayyy."
Three extra letters.
Because acting unbothered takes effort.
Days passed, and she noticed changes she pretended not to notice.
He laughed at his phone more.
He checked his messages while talking to her.
He cancelled one of their usual evening calls because he was "busy."
Busy meant someone else now.
And the worst part wasn't that he liked another girl.
The worst part was realizing he could.
That her presence had never stopped him from choosing differently.
One afternoon, he looked almost nervous.
"I think I like her," he admitted quietly.
The world didn't stop.
Cars still passed.
People still talked.
But something inside Iqra shifted painfully out of place.
"Oh," she said, hoping her voice didn't betray her. "That's… good."
Good.
The lie tasted bitter.
"She's just… easy to talk to," he continued, smiling in a way that felt unfamiliar. "She says what she feels. No games."
Iqra swallowed.
No games.
If only he knew how much she had been fighting herself not to play one.
"Are you happy?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said without hesitation.
And that should have been enough.
If he was happy, she should be happy.
That's what love is supposed to mean, right?
But love is simple in theory and complicated in the chest.
That night, alone in her room, she replayed every conversation, every moment she could have said something, every opportunity she let pass because she was scared of ruining the friendship that now felt like it was slipping through her fingers anyway.
She realized something terrifying.
She had been brave enough to love him silently.
But not brave enough to risk losing him.
And now she might lose him anyway.
For the first time in years, her phone lighting up didn't bring comfort.
It brought fear.
Fear of what he might say.
Fear of what he might feel.
Fear that she was slowly becoming a background character in a story she thought she was the main part of.
And the most painful truth settled quietly inside her:
Tannu wasn't the problem.
Tannu was just brave enough to want him out loud.
And sometimes, the one who speaks first is the one who gets chosen.
Iqra stared at the ceiling long after midnight, her heart heavy with something she couldn't confess to anyone.
Not him.
Not herself.
Because admitting it would mean facing the possibility that she was never "almost."
She was just convenient.
And convenience is never chosen forever.