Amy didn't speak on the walk home.
Rain misted the pavement, thin and cold, barely enough to justify Mrs Carter holding the umbrella over all three of them. It forced them close—shoulder to shoulder, breath overlapping—but Amy stayed silent anyway, eyes fixed on the dark seam where the road met the curb.
Like if she stared hard enough, she might fall into it.
Chloe noticed first.
She always did.
"You're doing that thing, the thing that you always have is obviously on your mind" Chloe said gently.
Amy blinked. "What thing?"
"The disappearing one."
Jamie sniffed behind them. "She looks like she's buffering."
"Jamie."
"I'm fine," Amy said too quickly. "Just tired."
Mrs Carter didn't argue. She never did when Amy shut a door. Instead, she shifted the umbrella slightly and said, "We've got soup waiting."
Soup meant warmth.
It meant someone had planned for her to come home broken.
That night, Amy tried to write.
She sat on her bed, knees tucked in, notebook balanced against her legs. The blue cover had always felt familiar—safe, even.
Tonight, it felt like it knew too much.
She opened to a blank page.
Rowan's voice crept in, unwanted.
People talk.
The way he'd said it. Casual. Almost bored.
She pressed her pen down hard onto the paper.
Nothing came.
She slammed the notebook shut and shoved it under her pillow, like she was trying to hide the evidence.
Maybe sleep would dull it.
It didn't.
The next day at school, everything felt louder.
Laughter followed her too closely. Whispers bent when she passed. A boy in the corridor glanced at her, then at his phone, then away again, reminding her of the way Rowan looked at her.
Her name didn't need to be said.
Writing Club had been different.
Separate.
Now it felt like the walls had thinned.
On Wednesday evening, Amy hovered in the hallway with her coat half on, staring at her reflection. Hair neat. Jumper plain. Expression carefully blank.
If she looked small enough, maybe nothing would touch her.
"You're going," Chloe said, appearing beside her.
"I didn't say I wasn't." But her mind was saying if she didn't then he would have won.
"You were thinking about it."
Amy swallowed. "What if he does it again?"
"Then we deal with it," Chloe said. "Whatever it is."
Mrs Carter smiled from the kitchen doorway. "And I'll be five minutes away. Emergency hot chocolate protocol."
Amy breathed out slowly.
The community centre smelled like coffee and old paper.
She paused outside Room 3.
For a moment, she thought about turning around.
Then she heard voices inside.
Rowan was already there.
Same chair. Same slouch. Same notebook, its pages thick with things she didn't want to imagine.
He looked up when she entered.
Their eyes met.
This time, he didn't smile.
That was worse than before.
Sarah greeted her warmly, but Amy barely heard it. Her skin felt too tight, like she'd stepped into a room where something had already happened.
The session began quietly.
"Tonight," Sarah said, "I want you to write about identity. Who you are. Who you pretend to be. Who you're scared of becoming."
Amy stared at the page.
She wrote one word.
Me.
Then crossed it out.
Halfway through, Rowan lifted his hand.
"I can share."
Sarah hesitated—just a flicker—then nodded. "Alright."
He stood.
Cleared his throat.
And began.
"She learned early that voices were costumes.
That if you changed the sound,
you could change the story.
New school. New name.
New accent.
New lie."
Amy's fingers went numb.
"She practised in the mirror.
Softer. Posher. Smaller.
Anything but real.
Anything but her."
The room felt tilted.
That wasn't just observation.
That was history.
Amy's breath came shallow. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it wanted out.
No one here was supposed to know that.
No one was supposed to remember Year Seven. The rehearsed vowels. The way she'd trained herself to sound less like home. The term she'd asked to be called Amelia because Amy felt too exposed and because it felt like that name would be remembered.
She hadn't told anyone that.
Rowan looked at her then.
Not with triumph.
Not with cruelty.
With certainty.
When he finished, silence swallowed the room.
Sarah frowned. "That was... very specific."
Rowan shrugged. "Inspired."
Inspired by what?
Amy stood so fast her chair scraped loudly across the floor.
"I need air," she said.
And left.
Outside, the sky was bruised purple, clouds pressed low like they were listening.
Amy slid down the wall until she was sitting on the cold concrete, arms locked around her knees.
How did he know?
Had someone told him?
Someone at school?
Someone she'd trusted and forgotten?
Or had he been watching longer than she realised?
The door creaked.
Sarah stepped out.
"May I sit?"
Amy nodded.
They didn't speak at first.
"That shouldn't have happened," Sarah said quietly. "Not like that."
"He didn't say my name," Amy whispered.
"I know," Sarah said. "But intention matters."
Amy's voice shook. "I thought I buried that version of me."
Sarah studied her carefully. "Why did you change it?"
Amy hesitated.
Then: "Because being me never seemed safe."
Sarah didn't rush to answer.
When she finally spoke, her voice was steady. "It is here. And if it ever stops being, you tell me."
Amy nodded, but uncertainty curled tight in her chest.
On the walk home, she told Chloe and Jamie everything.
The accent.
The name.
The pretending.
Chloe squeezed her hand. "That's not a shame. That's survival."
Jamie nodded. "I pretended I liked football for two years. Still recovering."
Amy laughed, the sound shaky but real.
That night, she pulled the notebook back out.
She didn't hide it this time.
She turned to a fresh page and wrote:
I used to hide in my voice.
Someone learned how to listen.
I don't know why yet.
She paused.
Then added:
But I will.
She closed the notebook gently.
Some bruises didn't show.
Some mysteries didn't want to stay buried.
And Amy was starting to understand—
writing wasn't just where she hid.
It was where the truth waited