Mrs Carter found the leaflet by accident.
It had been folded into quarters and shoved inside a library book Amy had borrowed weeks earlier. When it slid out onto the kitchen table one evening, no one noticed it at first. Until Jamie who was sitting opposite Amy eating a chocolate pudding spotted it and picked it up.
"What's this?" he said, squinting. "Riverside Youth Writing Group. Wednesdays. Ages thirteen to eighteen. Sounds... serious."
Amy's fork froze halfway to her mouth.
Chloe leaned over. "Read the rest."
Jamie cleared his throat theatrically.
"A supportive space for young writers to share work, build confidence, and find their voice."
He looked up slowly.
"Find their voice," he repeated. "That's literally you."
Amy dropped her spoon.
"No."
Mrs Carter glanced up. "No?"
"I'm not going," Amy said quickly. Too quickly. "Absolutely not."
"Why not?" Chloe asked.
"Because I'll panic. Because I'll mess up. Because I won't know what to say. Because—" She ran out of breath. "Because no."
Jamie nodded thoughtfully. "Strong reasoning. Emotionally sound. Still incorrect."
Amy shot him a look.
Mrs Carter picked up the leaflet and read it more carefully.
"They meet at the community centre," she said. "Five minutes away."
Amy groaned. "That makes it worse."
"It also makes it easy to leave," Mrs Carter replied. "Which matters."
That night, Amy lay awake staring at the ceiling.
A writing group meant sharing.
Listening.
Being seen.
Her chest tightened.
But another thought crept in, unwanted and dangerous.
What if they're kind?
She hated that thought most of all.
Hope had teeth.
Wednesday came anyway.
Rain misted the pavement as they walked home from school.
"So," Chloe said casually, swinging their umbrella. "Any exciting plans tonight?"
"No," Amy replied, immediately suspicious.
"Funny," Chloe continued. "Because someone is leaving the house at six."
Amy stopped walking. "You planned this."
"Planned is a strong word," Chloe said. "I prefer to strategically believe in you."
Mrs Carter appeared behind them, already holding her umbrella.
"Shoes on in ten," she said cheerfully.
Amy sighed.
Outnumbered.
At six o'clock, she stood in the hallway tugging at her sleeves.
"I can't do this," she muttered.
"You can," Chloe said.
"You will," Jamie added.
"And you're allowed to leave at any point, at any point you feel uncomfortable you can leave. Don't think of it as disappointing us. We will only be disappointed if you don't try, " Mrs Carter said gently.
That helped.
A little.
The community centre smelled like floor polish and old books. A hand-painted sign was taped to a door:
WRITING GROUP – ROOM 3
Amy's feet hesitated.
Mrs Carter squeezed her shoulder. "I'll be in the café. Hot chocolate emergency only."
Amy nodded and stepped inside.
Five people sat in a loose circle. Different ages. Different clothes. All carrying notebooks like shields.
A woman in her twenties smiled.
"I'm Sarah. Welcome."
Amy took the empty chair, heart hammering.
Introductions went around the circle. Name. Favourite book. One thing you liked about writing.
When it reached Amy—
"I'm Amy," she said quietly. "I like... when words feel honest."
Sarah smiled. "That's a good reason."
Later, Sarah asked, "Would anyone like to share something they've written?"
Silence.
Then a boy with curly hair spoke.
Then a girl read a poem—raw, uneven, brave.
When she finished, everyone clapped. Softly. Kindly.
No one laughed.
Amy stared at her notebook.
She didn't raise her hand.
Not today.
And no one pushed her.
Afterward, Sarah said, "You did well just being here."
Amy frowned. "I didn't do anything."
"You showed up," Sarah said. "That's enough for a first night."
Outside, the rain had eased into a thin mist.
"Well?" Chloe asked, practically vibrating.
"It wasn't..." Amy hesitated. "It wasn't awful."
Jamie gasped. "High praise."
Mrs Carter smiled without saying anything.
Amy looked up at the grey sky.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
She'd go back.