The second Wednesday felt heavier than the first.
Not louder. Not scarier in obvious ways. Just... heavier.
Amy noticed it as soon as she stepped into Room 3. The chairs were arranged the same way as the week before. Sarah smiled the same. The kettle hissed in the corner like it always did.
But something was different.
Someone new sat in the circle.
He was older than her. Not by much—maybe sixteen or seventeen—but he carried himself like he already knew he belonged there. He lounged back in his chair, one ankle resting on his knee, notebook open like it was an extension of his hand.
He looked up when Amy entered.
Just once.
Not curious.
Assessing like he already knew something about her.
Amy's stomach tightened.
She took her seat anyway.
"I'm glad you all came back," Sarah said warmly. "And welcome to Rowan. It's his first session with us."
Rowan lifted his hand in a lazy half-wave.
"Hey."
His voice was calm. Confident. The kind of voice that is expected to be listened to.
Introductions went around again.
When it reached Rowan, he smiled slightly.
"I'm Rowan. I write mostly short fiction. Some poetry, if I'm bored. I like playing with structure. Breaking rules."
Amy hated how his eyes flicked to her notebook when he said it.
Like he was already judging the way she held her pen.
They began with a warm-up exercise—five minutes, no stopping, no editing.
Amy liked that part. It gave her somewhere to hide.
Her pen moved carefully at first, then a little faster.
Rain. Silence. A girl who wanted to disappear into margins.
When time was up, Sarah asked if anyone wanted to share.
The curly-haired boy from last week went first.
Then the girl with the poem.
Then Rowan.
He didn't ask.
He just started reading.
His piece was sharp. Clever. Polished in a way that felt intentional. The group murmured appreciatively. Someone actually said wow.
Amy felt her chest shrink.
When Rowan finished, Sarah nodded.
"Very strong imagery," she said. "Thank you for sharing."
Rowan smiled. "Yeah, I've been doing this a while."
Amy looked down at her page.
Her writing suddenly felt thin.
Later, Sarah turned to Amy.
"Amy, would you like to share tonight?"
The room tilted.
Amy opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Rowan glanced at her, eyebrow lifting slightly.
She shook her head. "Not tonight."
"That's fine," Sarah said easily. "Whenever you're ready."
Rowan leaned forward.
"You should," he said. Not unkindly. Just... confidently. "You can't improve if you don't put your work out there."
Amy's cheeks burned.
"I know," she said quietly.
"I'm just saying," he continued, "writing groups are kind of pointless if people don't actually write."
The word people landed like an accusation.
Sarah stepped in gently. "Everyone moves at their own pace."
Rowan shrugged. "Sure."
But he didn't look convinced.
The rest of the session passed in fragments.
Amy stopped writing halfway through another exercise. Her pen hovered, useless. Every sentence felt wrong before it even existed.
On the walk home, Chloe chattered as usual.
"So? Still not awful?"
Amy hesitated.
"There's a boy," she said finally.
Jamie groaned. "Obviously."
"He's not—" Amy stopped herself. "He's just... a lot."
Mrs Carter glanced at her. "Did he make you uncomfortable?"
"I don't know," Amy said. "He just makes me feel... small."
That night, Amy opened her notebook.
Stared at the page.
Closed it again.
Rowan's voice echoed in her head.
You can't improve if you don't put your work out there.
She hated that he was right.
She hated it more that it felt like pressure instead of encouragement.
For the first time since she'd gone back to writing, the notebook didn't feel patient.
It felt like it was watching her.
Waiting to see if she'd quit again.
Amy slid it under her pillow and turned onto her side, staring into the dark.
Writing used to hurt in a good way.
Now it hurt like something that could be taken from her.
And she didn't know which scared her more—
losing it,
or fighting to keep it.