Amy didn't write the next day.
Or the day after that.
At first, she called it a pause. A breath. A way to let the noise in her head settle. Mrs Carter had said there was no deadline. Chloe had sworn she wouldn't hover. Jamie had made a whole show of promising never to say the words creative potential again.
But pauses can stretch.
And silence, once it settles in, knows how to grow.
Her notebook stayed on her desk, exactly where she'd left it. Closed. Still. Watching. Waiting for the day to come when it will be opened again.
Every morning, she noticed it without touching it.
Every night, she turned her lamp off with her back to it.
At school, Amy didn't disappear—but something inside her dimmed.
She still answered when teachers called on her. Still smiled at Chloe's jokes. Still helped Jamie untangle algebra like nothing was wrong. But her thoughts folded inward, careful and contained
In English, she shrank.
She stopped raising her hand.
Stopped volunteering.
Stopped believing she had anything worth saying.
When Mr Harris asked for ideas, she fixed her gaze on her pen until the ink soaked through the page, spreading into a small, ugly blue blot. Proof that something inside her was leaking.
He noticed.
She could feel it.
But he didn't push.
And that somehow hurt and helped at the same time.
One evening, Chloe dropped onto Amy's bed without asking, like she always did.
"You've been weird," Chloe said.
Amy turned onto her side. "Wow. Stunning analysis."
"You know what I mean," Chloe replied. "You're not tired-weird. Or grumpy-weird. You're... quiet-weird."
"I'm fine."
Chloe raised an eyebrow. The look that said liar without needing the word.
They stared at each other, the silence thick with everything Amy hadn't said.
Finally, Amy sat up.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"Of what?"
"Of trying again," Amy whispered. "Finding out yesterday wasn't a fluke. Of proving them right. But what happens if they all said that I only won because the judges felt sorry for me."
Chloe's voice softened. "Failing doesn't erase what you've already done. Remember all the other things that you have done, become a member of the showcase "
Amy shook her head. "It feels like it does."
"It doesn't," Chloe said firmly. "It just means you dared to go back."
Amy studied with her sister. "Since when did you get wise?"
"Since living with you," Chloe said.
Their laughter was quiet, fragile, like it might break if they pushed it too hard.
That night, Amy picked up her notebook.
She held it with both hands, tracing the bent corners, the softened spine, the ink-smudge on the back she'd never managed to clean off. Once, it felt like freedom. Like a place she could breathe.
Now it felt like an expectation.
She opened it.
A blank page stared back at her. White. Endless. Unforgiving.
Her heart began to race.
Too much.
She snapped it shut and slid it into her desk drawer instead. After a second's hesitation, she took the small silver key and turned it.
Click.
The sound landed heavy in the room.
Locked.
Hidden.
Safe.
Or so she told herself.
The days filled easily after that. Homework. Chores. Helping Miss Carter carry shopping bags. Letting Jamie choose the TV even when he picked rubbish.
Anything to stay busy. Anything to avoid the quiet.
It worked
Mostly.
Until one afternoon, she came into her room and found Chloe sitting on her bed, turning something over in her fingers.
The key.
Her key.
"Looking for this?" Chloe asked gently.
Amy froze. "Why do you have that?"
"It was on your desk," Chloe said. "You dropped it."
Heat rushed to Amy's face. "You weren't supposed to see."
Chloe stood and held it out. "I know you're hiding."
Amy didn't move.
"Not from me," Chloe added. "From yourself."
Amy closed her fingers around the key. "I just don't want to be disappointed again."
Chloe stepped closer. "You won't be. Because you're more than one moment. One classroom. One bad day."
Amy's throat tightened.
"I don't know how to start," she said.
"Then don't," Chloe replied softly. "Not properly. It starts to get messy."
That night, Amy unlocked the drawer.
Slowly. Carefully. Like something inside might snap.
Nothing did.
The notebook lay where she'd left it. Quiet. Waiting.
She opened it.
This time, she didn't search for something clever or brave or impressive.
She wrote:
I am scared.
I am tired.
I am still here.
The words sat there, small and plain.
Not beautiful.
Not polished.
Not safe.
But honest.
And for now, that was enough to keep the notebook open.