Birdie arrives at college believing love will be obvious when she finds it—something she will recognize, something that will stay. Surrounded by a close-knit group of female friends who anchor her, she instead finds herself caught between two relationships that shape her in ways she does not fully understand until they are already over.

HONEY, NOT SUGAR, an upmarket literary novel complete at approximately 65,000 words. Blending the emotional intimacy of Normal People with the sharp, voice-driven reflection of Luster, this novel explores memory, longing, and the quiet endurance of love in all its forms—romantic, platonic, and everything in between. It will appeal to readers drawn to intimate, voice-driven novels about young womanhood and emotional inheritance.

To get into the groove of Honey, Not Sugar, take a listen here on Spotify.

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First Chapter of Honey, Not Sugar  

Now

Birdie now took her tea hard. No sugar. She told herself it made her sharper. Less sentimental.

Well, she told herself that. 

Until she found a Turkish restaurant in Midtown, by accident, where Adem’s grandmother insisted on a little bit of honey. Birdie liked to watch it dissolve, to get lost in her mind just as the honey lost itself in the tea.

On this day, across from her, Adem poured hot tea from a domed silver pot, steady-handed, the steam briefly fogging his glasses before disappearing. The restaurant was quiet. Mid-afternoon. Sitting criss-crossed in her regular booth, Birdie began talking. She’d been coming here so long that Adem was a friend, and he loved to hear her stories. 

As he worked around the restaurant, Birdie sometimes following behind, they swapped memories. Adem liked to talk about music, about how he nearly got expelled from high school in New Jersey for selling weed. Birdie meandered through stories about college, about coincidences, about boys who seemed—briefly—like fate.

What Birdie didn’t say, at least not yet, was how long she’d stayed inside those stories after they ended. That, for many nights, she fell asleep wearing one boy’s sweater and the other boy’s earrings. 

She wasn’t good at giving things back.

It wasn’t really objects that were the problem. Messages she hadn’t deleted. Polaroids hidden away in books on her shelf that she pretended were forgotten. Small things that lived in drawers and the cigar box her grandpa had given her years ago. 

She had tried, for a short time, to stop keeping things. She talked herself into throwing out receipts, deleting blurry photos from her phone, tossing a chipped mug into the garbage when she moved to the city. Something in her always resisted. 

It wasn’t that the objects themselves mattered. It was that they proved something had happened. That she had been there. 

Even now, sitting across from Adem, she could feel it: the quiet inventory she carried. It was like all of the previous versions of herself lived in these things. And, so, how could she get rid of them? She wondered, sometimes, if other people moved through the world more cleanly. If they let things end where they ended.

Adem leaned back in his chair, studying her across the table with an ease that made Birdie feel both seen and slightly exposed. “So,” he said, refilling her cup, his hand unhurried, “you’re telling me you were the other woman?”

Birdie pressed the warm ceramic to her cheek, welcoming the heat before answering. “No,” she said. “It’s worse.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I was the other Birdie.”

Adem blinked. “There were two of you?”

“Same name,” Birdie said. “Same hair. Same everything, basically.” A small pause. “Except she was taller.” 

She took a sip, nodding to herself as the memories traced on the edges of her mind. Her tea was still a little too hot, but she let it sit on her tongue anyway. Holding it in her mouth as it cooled, bringing her back to reality before saying, “He was dating her first. I just didn’t know it.”

Adem let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “That is…statistically impossible.”

“No, I think you mean improbable.” She smiled when she said it. She always did. It was easier that way. Easier to make it a self-contained, semi-absurd story. Easier than admitting how it had actually felt. 

Because the truth was, even back then, Birdie had known something was off. Reza had always felt just slightly out of reach, like a signal she couldn’t quite tune into. And instead of walking away, she leaned in. Reza (the one who had made her the other Birdie) used to look at her as if she were some rare star. Really though, Reza was the star: the type that only flickered into view every few thousand years, burning brightly until it disappeared. 

Adem shook his head, “Sure. Okay, continue. What about the other guy? You said there were two, right?”

Birdie’s fingers moved instinctively to the loose threads at the cuff of her sweater, twisting them gently. “Rama,” she said. “He came later.”

“Better or worse?”

Birdie hesitated.

That was the problem. There wasn’t a clear answer. There never had been.

“Different,” she said finally. “Which, at the time, felt like better.” 

Adem stood and slid into the seat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. “Okay,” he said. “I’m going to need this from the beginning.” He held out his hands slightly forward, as if he was going to catch Birdie’s story in his palms. 

She let out a small breath, her gaze drifting past the window, past the reflection of herself in the glass layered over the city in the distance. 

She could feel it, even now. The pull of that time. The version of herself who believed everything meant something. Who thought love, once it appeared, would always stay.

She turned back to Adem.

“Okay,” she said, fingers spreading into the air in front of her, “January. Sophomore year.”

And just like that, she was there again.