It happened in English.
That was the cruel part—not the hallway, not behind backs, but a room with desks in neat rows and a teacher who believed classrooms were safe places.
"Today," Mr. Harris said, tapping the whiteboard, "we're sharing short reflections. But just to let you know that I will be giving you a lot of marks and that mark will go with a grade and it will be 15% of your final grade at the end of the school year."
Amy's stomach dropped.
She kept her eyes on her notebook, willing herself to disappear. The pages were filled, but not with stories—just fragments. Half-lines. Crossed-out thoughts. Doubt written in ink.
Before she could breathe through it, a voice cut in.
"I think Amy should read first," Kelsey said lightly, like it was a compliment. "She's kind of the expert now, right?"
A few laughs rippled across the room. Not loud. Worse—uncertain. Curious.
Mr. Harris hesitated. "Only if Amy wants to go first, I mean going first is a big thing your The first person to go always is the first person people remember and it is most likely for people to have something to say."
Every eye turned.
Amy felt the heat crawl up her neck. Her hands shook under the desk. She could hear her heartbeat, loud and uneven.
Chloe glanced back at her, concern written across her face. Jamie's eyes were steady, pleading without words.
Say no, her mind screamed.
Protect yourself.
But another voice whispered too: If you don't read first, they win.
"I—" Amy started, then stopped.
The silence stretched.
Kelsey tilted her head. "Come on. Don't be shy. Or... did the words stop working?"
That did it.
Amy stood.
Her legs felt weak, but she stood anyway. She walked to the front with her notebook clutched too tightly, like it might slip away if she loosened her grip.
The room felt different from the stage. There were no warm lights here. No applause waiting. Just faces—some expectant, some bored, some sharp.
She opened the notebook.
Her voice trembled on the first line.
Then someone snorted.
Quiet. Sharp. Enough.
She kept going.
Halfway through, Kelsey whispered something to Clara. They laughed. Not loudly—just enough.
Amy's words tangled. Her place on the page slipped. The silence turned heavy, uncomfortable.
Then a folded paper landed near her feet.
She didn't need to open it. She already knew.
Mr. Harris cleared his throat. "Alright, that's enough—"
But the damage had landed.
Amy stopped reading just thinking about what her final grade would be, from her nerve she reckoned it would be the lowest grade.
She stood there for a second too long, her notebook open, her story unfinished.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. Not because she was—but because that was the word her mouth had learned to use when the world pressed too hard.
She sat down.
The bell rang seconds later, sharp and unforgiving.
In the hallway, it followed her.
"Guess she's not that special after all."
"Overhyped."
"One good story doesn't make you a writer."
Voices from people wrispeared.
Amy walked faster. Her chest burned. Her eyes stung, but she didn't cry. Not here. Not where they could see.
In the bathroom, she locked herself into a stall and slid down the wall.
Her notebook lay in her lap.
For the first time, it felt heavy in a way she didn't know how to carry.
Maybe this is where it ends, she thought.
Maybe this is the moment I stop.
Jamie knocked softly on the door. "Amy?" His voice cracked. "You don't have to decide anything right now."
Chloe's voice followed. "But don't let them be the reason."
Amy stared at the pages. At the crossed-out lines. At the empty spaces waiting for words she wasn't sure she still had.
Writing had given her a voice.
But today, it had made her a target.
She closed the notebook.
Not forever.
Just long enough to breathe.
The choice wasn't made yet—but it was coming.