The walk only took five minutes.
Amy had timed it once, out of curiosity. From the front gate of Mrs Carter's house to the chipped blue door of the community centre, it was exactly three hundred and twenty steps if she didn't rush.
Three hundred and twenty steps to somewhere that wasn't home to somewhere where she wasn't sure if she felt safe or felt welcome.
She paused on the pavement, fingers curled around the strap of her bag that only held her notebook and pen, watching her breath cloud the cold air. The house behind her was quiet. Chloe would still be asleep. Jamie was in his room. Mrs Carter would be in the kitchen, rereading the same page of her book, distracted in the way she got when she was worried but didn't want to show it.
No one had noticed her leave.
That felt strange.
She started walking.
Past the postbox with its peeling red paint.
Past Mr Lewis's hedge, always cut too late.
Past the cracked slab of pavement shaped like a lightning bolt.
She'd lived here for nearly two years and had never really seen any of it before.
Today, everything felt sharper. Louder. As if the world had leaned in.
Maybe because this time, she wasn't walking somewhere she had to be.
She was walking somewhere she had chosen to be.
The community centre smelled faintly of dust and disinfectant, a mix that reminded her of school corridors and waiting rooms. Amy hesitated at the door.
Through the narrow window, she could see inside—chairs pulled into a loose circle, a table scattered with notebooks and pens. Sarah stood near the wall, laughing at something someone had said, her voice easy and warm.
For a moment, Amy considered turning around.
No one would stop her.
No one would even know.
Then she thought of her notebook at night—how heavy it felt in her hands, thick with things she never said out loud.
She pushed the door open.
"Hey, Amy!"
Sarah noticed her immediately. Her hair was tied up, loose strands escaping, and she wore a jumper that looked far too big, like comfort had been chosen on purpose or maybe it was trying to tell her that she would have to seek out comfort.
"Come in—you're just in time."
Amy nodded and stepped inside, careful not to look like she didn't know where she belonged.
Five other people sat in the circle.
Sophie,A girl with bright pink headphones resting around her neck.
Two boys whisper-arguing over a pen.
A girl flipping through a notebook layered with stickers.
And one boy sitting slightly apart from the rest.
Rowan looked up when Amy entered.
Then looked away again, quickly—like he hadn't meant to be caught.
Amy chose a chair near the edge of the circle. Close enough to be included. But also close enough to the door if she needed to escape if she needed to.
Sarah clapped her hands softly.
"Okay, everyone. Today's just about sharing ideas. No pressure. No judging. You only read if you want to."
Amy liked that.
Only if you want to.
She took her notebook from her bag and rested it on her lap, unopened.
They started with introductions—names, schools, favourite books.
When it reached her, Amy said quietly, "I'm Amy. I... I like poetry."
The words felt dangerous. Like admitting something that could be used against her.
Sarah smiled as if it were the bravest thing she'd heard all day.
Later, Sarah set a timer.
"Ten minutes," she said. "Write anything—a memory, a thought, a sentence you can't get rid of."
Amy stared at the blank page.
Her pen hovered.
Then she wrote.
About the smell of smoke.
About boxes.
About being moved like luggage.
About learning how to disappear without being asked.
The words came fast—too fast. When the timer beeped, she felt breathless, like she'd been running without realising it.
"Does anyone want to share?" Sarah asked.
Silence.
The girl with the stickers shook her head.
One of the boys coughed loudly, pretending it had been an accident.
Amy kept her eyes on the page.
Then—
"I will."
The voice was soft.
The boy who'd been sitting apart shifted forward slightly. "I'm Rowan," he said.
He read about standing in someone else's shadow. About being invisible beside a brighter light. About loving someone so much it makes you smaller.
When he finished, no one spoke.
Not because it was awkward.
Because it was too honest.
Afterward, people drifted toward the door in small, uncertain groups. Amy packed her bag slowly, her chest tight in a way that felt both heavy and strangely light.
"Hey."
She looked up.
Rowan stood beside her.
Up close, he seemed younger than she'd expected—freckles across his nose, eyes that didn't quite know where to rest.
"That thing you wrote," he said.
Her heart jumped. "I—I didn't read it."
"I know," he said quickly. "I just... I saw you writing. You didn't stop. Not once."
She didn't know how to respond.
He hesitated, then said, "You write like you're listening to something no one else can hear."
Amy blinked.
No teacher had ever said that.
No foster worker.
No social worker.
No one.
"Thanks," she whispered.
They walked out together. The sky had already darkened; streetlights flickered one by one.
"You live nearby?" Rowan asked.
"Five minutes," Amy said.
He smiled slightly. "Me too."
They stood there a moment longer than necessary—two people unsure how to leave without breaking something fragile.
"I'll see you next week," he said.
"Yeah," she replied. "Next week."
She walked home alone.
But for the first time in a long while—
She didn't feel lonely.