3 weeks later
The first person to see it wasn't Amy.
It was Chloe.
She stopped so abruptly in the corridor that someone walked straight into her back.
"Oi—" they started, then followed Chloe's stare.
The noticeboard outside the English block was crowded as usual. Posters peeling at the corners. A lost PE kit. A flyer for the school play.
And in the middle of it—
A page.
White. Clean. Too clean.
Typed.
Chloe stepped closer.
Her stomach dropped.
She knew those words.
She knew the rhythm of them. The pauses. The way the sentences bent inward instead of out.
Amy.
Someone had pinned Amy's writing to the board like it belonged there.
No name at the top. No title.
Just the text.
They moved me before I learned the shape of rooms.
I learned how to pack faster than I learned how to stay.
Some houses smelled like soap. Some like smoke.
None of them smelled like mine.
Chloe's chest went tight.
A group of girls stood nearby, whispering.
"That's dark," one of them said.
"Is it real?"
"Who even wrote this?"
Someone laughed—not loud, not cruel enough to be obvious. Just enough.
Chloe tore the page down.
Her hands shook so badly she and the anger rose up from inside and enough to make Chloe rip the piece of paper in half.
Too late.
People had already read it.
By lunchtime, it had spread.
Photos. Screenshots. Messages sent with no context.
Have you seen this?
Do you think it's about foster care?
Isn't that the quiet girl from English?
Amy found out in Maths.
She noticed the looks first.
Not laughing. Not exactly.
Watching.
When her phone buzzed, she ignored it.
When it buzzed again, she didn't.
A message from an unknown number.
Is this about you?
Attached: a photo.
The noticeboard.
Her words.
Amy's breath left her in one sharp rush.
The room tilted.
She stood up without asking.
The teacher said her name, but it didn't land.
The corridor was too bright. Too loud. Her heart felt like it was trying to escape her ribs.
She pressed herself into the bathroom stall and slid down until she was sitting on the floor.
Someone had taken it.
Not a draft.
Not a sentence.
A full piece.
One she'd only written once.
One she'd never shared.
She thought of her bag. Her locker. Her room.
She thought of a red pen.
Too honest.
Her phone buzzed again.
Another message.
This one didn't have a picture.
It had a sentence.
You should have known better than to write the truth where people could find it.
Amy didn't cry.
She went very still.
But who could have done this and why?
When Mrs Carter arrived at school, the page was already gone.
But the damage wasn't.
The headteacher talked about privacy. About consequences. About investigations.
None of it touched Amy.
What touched her was Rowan's empty chair at writing club that evening.
What touched her was the way Sarah's smile faltered when Amy didn't read.
What touched her was the fact that someone out there didn't just know her past—
They had copies of it.
And they weren't afraid to use them.
That night, Amy opened her notebook.
For the first time in days.
She flipped through the pages, fast and frantic, checking margins. Counting pieces. Looking for gaps she hadn't noticed before.
Near the back, a page was missing.
Not torn.
Carefully removed.
Clean edges.
Like it had been taken to be kept.
Amy closed the notebook slowly.
Whatever this was—
It wasn't over.
And it wasn't random.
Not anymore.