2 weeks later
Amy didn't go to writing club not because she was ill but because of all the whispers from the group and all the voices from Rowan.
She told herself it was only for one week. One meeting. A pause, not an ending. Just enough time for the noise to settle and for the looks to lose their sharpness.
But when five o'clock came and went, she was still sitting on her bed, her notebook closed beside her like something alive—something that might bite if she reached for it.
Downstairs, Chloe was pacing.
Amy could hear her even with the door shut—bare feet on carpet, cupboard doors opening and closing, the sharp clink of a spoon against a mug. Chloe only made that much noise when she was trying very hard not to.
Jamie knocked once, then opened the door slowly.
"You're late," he said.
"I'm not going," Amy replied.
Jamie leaned against the doorframe. "Since when?"
Amy didn't answer.
His eyes flicked to the notebook. "Are you sick?"
"No."
"Mad?"
"No."
"Kidnapped by aliens?"
She almost smiled. Almost.
"I just... don't feel like it."
Jamie studied her. He was good at that—at noticing when words didn't line up with the truth.
"Chloe's going to explode," he said gently.
"Let her."
"She's already tried to make toast three times."
Amy sighed and pushed herself up. "Fine. I'll come down."
Chloe was standing in the kitchen, arms folded, glaring at the microwave like it had personally betrayed her.
"You're skipping," Chloe said the second Amy appeared.
"I'm resting."
"That's skipping with better branding."
Amy grabbed a glass and filled it with water. Her hands shook slightly. She hated that Chloe noticed.
"You love writing club," Chloe went on. "You've been counting down to Tuesdays like it's Christmas."
"Loved," Amy corrected.
That made Chloe stop.
Jamie sat at the table. "What happened?"
Amy stared into the glass. The water trembled, just a little.
"They printed it, they know too much," she said quietly.
"Printed what?" Chloe asked.
"My story. From before. From... before."
Understanding slid into place.
Chloe's face hardened. "Who?"
"I don't know."
"Rowan?" Jamie asked.
Amy had told both Jamie and Chloe about Rowan the Wednesday 2 weeks ago, when she returned from the writing club. Making sure not to miss any detail about everything. About Rowan, about how Rowan knew everything about her past and about Rowan's sister who apparently knew Amy.
"I don't know," Amy repeated, louder now. "Everyone keeps acting like I'm supposed to know, but I don't."
She set the glass down too hard. Water sloshed over the edge and onto the counter.
Mrs Carter appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel.
"What's all this noise?" she asked.
"Nothing," Amy said quickly.
"Everything," Chloe said at the same time.
Mrs Carter raised an eyebrow. "Sit."
They did.
Amy hated how easily she obeyed.
They explained—slowly, in pieces.
The whispers.
Rowan's words that sounded harmless until you replayed them later.
Mrs Carter listened without interrupting. She always did. It made people braver.
By the time Amy finished, her throat felt scraped raw.
"So," Mrs Carter said carefully, "you're thinking of quitting."
"Just for now."
"Because you're scared."
Amy flinched. "I'm not scared."
Chloe snorted. "You checked your bag four times this morning."
Amy shot her a look.
Mrs Carter reached across the table and squeezed Amy's hand.
"Being scared doesn't mean you're weak," she said. "It means something matters."
Amy looked away.
"They'll just keep taking things," she whispered. "My words. My past. My... everything."
"Only if you let them," Mrs Carter said.
Silence settled.
Not heavy.
Waiting.
Later, in her room, Amy tried to read.
She couldn't.
She tried to write.
One sentence.
Nothing.
She closed the notebook again.
Maybe Rowan was right.
Maybe once words left you, they stopped belonging to you.
A knock came at her door.
Chloe stepped inside, holding something.
"This was in your bag," she said.
Amy's stomach dropped. "What?"
Chloe held out a folded piece of paper.
Amy unfolded it with shaking fingers.
A paragraph.
Her handwriting.
From a draft she hadn't touched in months.
One line was circled in red pen.
Beside it, in small, neat writing:
Too honest.
"I didn't put that there," Amy said.
"I know," Chloe replied.
Jamie appeared in the doorway. "That wasn't there this morning."
Amy sat down hard on the bed.
"They were in my bag," she whispered. "All day. At lunch. In PE. In the corridors. Everywhere."
Chloe's voice sharpened. "So someone had access."
"Yes."
"No," Jamie said quietly. "Someone still does."
They stared at the paper.
At the red circle.
At the words that no longer felt like hers.
Outside, a car passed.
Someone laughed on the street.
Life kept moving.
But inside Amy's room, something small and fragile split open.
Not enough to break.
Not yet.
Just enough to hurt.