By the second week, Writing Club stopped feeling like a refuge.
It didn't announce itself. There was no dramatic shift, no slammed doors. Just a subtle tightening in the room, like air before a storm.
Amy noticed it when she walked in and the circle adjusted—chairs scraping a little too quickly, conversations pausing a little too late.
And then she noticed him.
Rowan sat two seats to her left, long legs stretched out, notebook balanced carelessly on one knee. He had the kind of confidence that didn't ask permission. Not loud. Not obvious. Just... settled, like he expected to be there. And that on its own was enough to make her know that something was coming.
He glanced at her once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
Then smiled, as if they shared a joke.
Amy's stomach sank.
They'd never met. She was sure of it. She would have remembered.
Sarah started the session as usual—warm, encouraging, careful. "Same rules as always," she said. "Respect. Confidentiality. This stays in the room."
Rowan's pen tapped against his notebook.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
When it came time to share, he went first.
His piece was sharp. Clever. The kind of writing that made people lean in despite themselves. When he finished, a few people murmured impressed approval.
Sarah smiled. "Strong voice," she said. "Very controlled."
Rowan shrugged. "Guess I've had practice."
His eyes flicked to Amy.
Just for a second.
After that, things shifted.
When someone else read, Rowan leaned back, arms folded, expression unreadable. When Amy scribbled in her notebook, she felt his gaze like pressure between her shoulders.
Then, halfway through the session, he spoke again.
"This is kind of funny," he said lightly. "I didn't realise she would be here."
The room stilled.
Amy froze.
She is known
Sarah frowned. "Rowan?"
He tilted his head, pretending innocence. "Sorry. I just mean—I've heard of Amy. From school. She is kind of a famous writer there."
Heat flooded Amy's face.
"Have you?" Sarah asked carefully.
Rowan smiled. Not unkindly. Worse.
"Yeah," he said. "People talk."
Amy's notebook slid slightly on her lap. She grabbed it, fingers shaking from what he might of heard and by the sounds of things he either went to her school or did he know someone that went to school with her.
"What kind of talk?" Sarah asked.
Rowan hesitated, like he was doing them all a favour. "Just... stuff. About last year. The thing with English class. And the rumours after."
Someone shifted in their chair.
Another looked down.
Amy couldn't breathe.
"That's enough," Sarah said firmly. "This isn't appropriate."
Rowan raised his hands. "I'm not judging. I just think it's interesting, you know? Writing about honesty when—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
The silence did it for him.
Amy stood so fast her chair tipped backward.
"I need the bathroom," she muttered, already moving.
She didn't wait for permission.
The hallway was cold and empty. The hum of the lights felt too loud. She locked herself in a stall and pressed her forehead to the door.
School was supposed to stay at school.
Writing Club was supposed to be safe.
Rowan knew things.
Not everything.
But enough.
When she came back, Sarah gave her a small, apologetic smile. Rowan didn't look at her at all.
Which somehow felt worse.
At the end, Sarah pulled her aside. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "That shouldn't have happened."
"It's fine," Amy lied.
Outside, rain slicked the pavement. Mrs Carter stood under the café awning, worry written all over her face.
"How was it?" she asked gently.
Amy hesitated.
In her bag, her notebook felt heavier than it should have.
"I don't know," she said. "I don't know if I can keep doing this."
Mrs Carter didn't rush her. "You don't have to decide tonight."
Amy looked back at the community centre doors.
Rowan's laughter echoed faintly from inside.
Writing had always been the one place they couldn't touch her.
But now?
Now it felt like the rumours had learned to read.
And she had to decide—
Did she stop writing to protect herself?
Or keep going, knowing the words might hurt her before they healed her.