The room was too quiet.
Not empty-quiet.
People-quiet.
The kind where everyone is present but slightly withdrawn, like they've all agreed not to look directly at the same thing or that they have all agreed to not speak their mind.
Amy felt it the moment she stepped inside.
The chairs were set in their usual circle—twelve blue plastic seats, scuffed at the legs, uneven on the floor. Notebooks were stacked neatly in the centre. Normally, people would already be flipping through pages, laughing softly, comparing pens like they were trading secrets.
Today, no one touched anything. They didn't even look her way when she entered, and that alone made her feel like something was going to happen.
Sarah stood by the whiteboard, lining up markers that were already straight. She smiled when she saw Amy, but it flickered—bright, then strained, like a bulb about to go.
"Hi, Amy," she said, too cheerful. "Glad you made it."
"Hi."
Chloe had taken a seat two chairs away and was studying her water bottle with theatrical intensity. Rowan sat opposite, staring at his notebook as if waiting for it to speak first.
Amy chose the empty chair beside him.
It scraped loudly against the floor.
Every head lifted.
Every pair of eyes landed on her.
Then, almost in sync, they dropped.
Too fast. Like it was somewhat planned to do it at that time.
Heat rushed up her neck. She folded her hands in her lap and counted her breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
"Okay," Sarah said, clapping softly. The sound dissolved in the air. "Let's get started."
No one echoed it.
She cleared her throat. "Today was meant to be a sharing day."
The silence stretched.
A cough.
A shuffle.
Someone's sleeve brushing plastic.
Sarah's smile held, barely. "We don't have to share if people aren't feeling ready. We can do a quiet writing session instead."
"That might be better," someone muttered just loud enough for Amy to hear.
Amy didn't see who.
Her stomach tightened anyway.
"Quiet writing it is," Sarah said.
Blank sheets were passed around. When one reached Amy, she hesitated before taking it, as if it might sting.
The pen felt unfamiliar in her hand.
Heavier.
Around her, the soft scratching of ink began. Usually she loved that sound. It meant ideas were alive, crawling out into the world.
Now it felt like she was the only one not moving.
She lowered her pen.
The girl sat by the window—
She stopped.
Crossed it out.
Sometimes stories break—
No.
Crossed that out too.
Her throat tightened.
Across the circle, Rowan glanced up. Their eyes met. He gave a small nod.
Not confident.
Not smug.
Just... steady.
Like: Keep going.
She looked down again.
Wrote:
The girl learned that words could be stolen.
Her hand froze.
She pressed the pen harder, then dragged a thick line through the sentence until the paper buckled.
A chair scraped sharply.
A girl stood. "Bathroom," she muttered, already moving.
The door shut too fast.
No one commented.
Time dragged. Ten minutes. Maybe more. The clock ticked louder than it should have.
Sarah moved slowly around the circle, crouching beside people, offering soft encouragement.
"Nice imagery."
"That line's strong."
"Keep that ending."
When she reached Amy, she paused.
Amy felt her there before she looked up.
"You don't have to force it today," Sarah whispered. "Just being here is brave enough."
Amy nodded.
It didn't feel brave.
It felt exposed.
Chloe leaned closer. "You're doing fine."
"I've written four words," Amy whispered back.
"Elite words," Chloe said solemnly.
That almost pulled a smile from her.
Almost.
Near the end, Sarah clapped again. "Does anyone want to share? No pressure."
Silence.
Then a boy near the door cleared his throat. "I can."
Relief softened Sarah's shoulders.
He read a poem about storms and broken umbrellas. It was careful. Polished. Safe.
People clapped.
Polite.
Measured.
Then Rowan spoke.
"I'll read."
Amy's head lifted before she could stop it.
He unfolded a page. His hands trembled—not dramatically, just enough to notice.
"It's not finished," he said.
Then he began.
It was about a boy who found a notebook that wasn't his.
About how the words inside it felt alive.
About how loving something fragile could look like holding it too tightly.
Or not tightly enough.
His voice faltered near the end.
When he finished, the silence felt different.
Not tense.
Heavy.
Sarah started clapping slowly.
This time, it spread naturally.
Rowan sat down fast, colour rising in his cheeks. He didn't look at Amy.
Amy wanted to speak.
Thank you.
Why?
Whose side are you on?
Are you protecting me—or yourself?
The questions tangled together.
She stayed quiet.
The session dissolved quickly. No lingering conversations. No small laughter in the doorway. Just zips, chairs scraping, footsteps.
Outside, the evening air felt sharper.
Near the bin by the entrance, something caught Amy's eye.
Paper.
Shredded into thin strips, twisted together like pale ribbon.
She bent down.
Picked one up.
A fragment of a sentence stared back at her.
Her sentence.
From last week.
Her breath stalled in her chest.
"Chloe," she whispered.
Chloe leaned in, read it, and went very still.
"Someone kept this," Chloe said quietly.
"And then destroyed it."
Amy looked at the torn strips in her hand.
The edges were fresh.
Not weathered.
Not old.
Whoever had done it hadn't gone far.
Somewhere nearby, someone still had the rest.
And they were close enough to touch her words.