The words stayed.
Amy half-expected them to vanish overnight, like courage that only worked in the dark. She imagined opening her notebook in the morning and finding the page blank again, as if she'd dreamed of honesty instead of writing it.
But when she checked before school, the three lines were still there.
I am scared.
I am tired.
I am still here.
They looked small.
They looked breakable.
They looked real.
Amy traced them once with her fingertip, then closed the notebook and slipped it into her bag. She didn't plan on showing anyone.
Not yet.
School felt louder than usual.
Someone was shouting near the lockers. A teacher clapped their hands for silence. A group of Year Tens practised dance moves in the corridor, almost colliding with everyone who passed.
Normally, Amy would've rolled her eyes.
Today, it felt distant—like she was watching everything through thick glass.
Chloe walked beside her, swinging their shared umbrella.
"You're thinking again," Chloe said.
"I always think," Amy replied.
"Not like this," Chloe said. "This is heavy-thinking."
Amy let out a small laugh despite the feeling she had in her stomach.
In English, Mr Harris handed back their assignments.
"Overall, some thoughtful responses," he said. "Well done."
He paused at Amy's desk.
"Good effort," he said quietly.
Not amazing.
Not brilliant.
Just good.
And somehow, that meant more.
Amy smiled—careful, like she didn't trust it to last. But inside she knew she could do better.
That afternoon, the rain refused to let up.
Mrs Carter declared it a "cosy day" and banned unnecessary trips outside.
Jamie immediately argued that football practice was absolutely necessary.
Mrs Carter disagreed.
The house settled into warmth instead. The heating hummed. Windows fogged. The kettle boiled again and again.
Amy and Chloe sat on the bedroom floor, backs against the bed, sorting through an old box of photos Mrs Carter had unearthed from a cupboard.
"Why are half of these blurry?" Chloe asked.
"Because Jamie can't hold a camera still," Amy said.
"Rude," Chloe replied. "But accurate."
They laughed.
Then Chloe picked up a photo of the two of them from years ago—taken not long after they'd moved in with Mrs Carter. They looked thinner. Smaller. Unsure of where to put their hands.
Amy barely recognised herself.
"We've changed," Chloe said softly.
"Is that a bad thing?" Amy asked.
"No," Chloe said. "It means we survived."
The word settled heavily in Amy's chest.
Survived.
Later, when Jamie was downstairs debating whether cereal counted as dinner, Chloe laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
"Amy?" she said.
"Yeah?"
"I was worried about you today," Chloe admitted. "After English. You went quiet."
Amy turned onto her side. "I didn't want to make it a thing."
"You're my sister," Chloe said simply. "Everything's a thing."
Amy hesitated. "I thought... maybe you'd be embarrassed of me."
Chloe sat up so fast she nearly knocked heads with her.
"What? No. Never, you know I love you to pieces and you could never embarrass me, some people say when they meet someone they forget about the relationship they had with their sister. That isn't going to change"
She grabbed Amy's hands.
"I'm proud of you, and will always be there for you no matter what life brings. You could move half way across the country and any problem you have you know you can pick up the phone and give me a call or a text and you know I will drop everything to be there for you, because that is what sisters are for." Chloe said. "All the time. Even when you mess up."
Amy's eyes burned.
"You're the bravest person I know," Chloe added.
Amy shook her head. "That's not true."
"It is," Chloe said. "You feel everything. And you still keep going."
There was a quiet moment between them.
Then Chloe said, "Promise me something."
Amy swallowed. "What?"
"Promise you won't shut me out when it gets hard," Chloe said. "Promise you'll let me sit with you in it."
Amy squeezed her hands. "I promise."
Chloe smiled. "Good. Because I'm not leaving."
That night, Amy wrote again.
Not much.
Just a short paragraph—about rain tapping on windows, and old photographs, and sisters who stayed even when things got uncomfortable.
She didn't cross it out.
She didn't lock it away.
She left the notebook open on her desk.
And when she turned off the light, the room still felt heavy—but softer.
Less empty.
Less lonely.