THE THINGS WE NOTICE TOO LATEPART 1
Jealousy arrived quietly.
Not as a scream.Not as a scene.
But as a tightening in her chest she didn't recognize until it was already there.
It started with a laugh.
Not hers.
Someone else's.
She was seated two rows back, notebook open, pen idle between her fingers, when she heard it—bright, confident, careless.
A girl near the front row.
Pretty in an effortless way. Comfortable. The kind of person who didn't second-guess every breath she took.
The professor paused mid-sentence.
Smiled.
It wasn't wide.It wasn't indulgent.
But it was real.
The girl's stomach dropped.
She watched as the professor responded to the student's comment—engaged, animated, present in a way she had never been with her.
Every word felt like a small betrayal.
You don't smile like that at me, she thought bitterly.
Then the thought sharpened, turned inward—
You're not allowed to want that.
She spent the rest of the lecture barely hearing a word.
Her attention clung instead to the way the professor leaned slightly closer to that student's desk. The ease of the exchange. The absence of restraint.
It shouldn't have mattered.
But it did.
Terribly.
She skipped lunch.
Walked instead.
Past buildings she didn't register. Past conversations she didn't hear.
Jealousy was ugly. She knew that.
Petty. Irrational.
She had no claim. No right.
And yet—
The emotion refused to leave.
That evening, her boyfriend tried again.
"You're really not okay," he said, concern edging his voice. "Did I do something?"
She looked at him.
Really looked.
At the familiar curve of his mouth. The easy certainty in his posture. The way he assumed closeness without ever questioning whether she still wanted it.
And suddenly, she couldn't breathe.
"I don't think this is working," she said softly.
He blinked. "What?"
"I don't feel the way I used to."
Silence stretched.
"Is this about that university thing?" he asked. "Are you stressed?"
"No," she said, shaking her head. "I think I've been lying to myself for a long time."
He scoffed, disbelief hardening into defensiveness.
"You're overthinking," he said. "You always do this."
Maybe.
But this time, she didn't back down.
"I need space."
He stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.
Then, sharply—"Is there someone else?"
The question struck too close.
She stood.
"I'm done," she said.
And for once, she didn't apologize for it.
The next day, everything felt different.
Lighter.
And infinitely more dangerous.
She noticed the professor noticed.
Not immediately.
But eventually.
The absence.
The way she no longer rushed out of class. No longer glanced at her phone between lectures. No longer carried herself like someone trying to be smaller.
She spoke more now.
With confidence.
With clarity.
With something like relief.
And the professor—against her will—listened.
The other student—the one who had laughed—lingered after class.
"So," she said easily, "about your comment earlier—do you think the author ever actually wanted freedom, or just the illusion of it?"
The professor responded politely.
Briefly.
But she didn't move away.
Didn't shut the conversation down.
The girl watched from across the room, heart pounding, something dark curling low in her stomach.
So that's how it is, she thought.
Later that afternoon, an email arrived.
From the professor.
Subject line: Office Hours – Clarification
Her breath caught.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before replying.
I'll be there.
The professor was standing when she entered the office.
Not seated.
Not guarded.
Just… tense.
"You ended things with him," the professor said quietly, the moment the door shut.
It wasn't a question.
The girl froze.
"How do you—"
"I saw him waiting for you," the professor said. "Yesterday."
Silence.
Then—
"That wasn't your concern," the girl replied carefully.
The professor's hands clenched at her sides.
"You're right," she said. "It shouldn't be."
She took a breath.
"And yet."
The word lingered between them.
Heavy.
Loaded.
DANGEROUS.