Subtext

It is early spring in New York City, that disjointed time when the weather cannot decide if it wants to be cruel or kind. The streets are slick with the remnants of a sudden rain shower, but the air smells faintly of earth, as though promising warmth just out of reach. Piper, her trench coat flapping slightly behind her, navigates the city with a sense of purpose she does not entirely feel. The city is loud, as always, but it seems more so today, with car horns and indistinct shouting blending into the white noise of her thoughts.

She has convinced herself that joining this writing group is a productive decision, though in truth, she is simply tired of her own company. Her evenings alone have begun to take on a static quality, each one bleeding into the next until she could no longer distinguish Tuesday from Thursday. Writing, once an outlet, now feels like an obligation she has failed to meet. This group, she tells herself, might offer structure. Or at least distraction.

She is polished in a way that feels deliberate. Her blonde hair is neatly styled, though the wind has pulled a few strands loose. She’s wearing a tailored trench coat and ankle boots that click audibly against the pavement. She looks composed, but there’s a tightness to her expression, like a guardedness born of both habit and insecurity. If someone were to glance her way, she’d flash a small, polite smile, the kind that asks for no follow-up.

The writing group meets in a community centre tucked between a laundrette and a bodega, its entrance marked only by a small, peeling sign. Piper hesitates briefly on the threshold, her hand hovering over the door handle. The building’s fluorescent lights cast an unflattering glow over the narrow hallway she steps into, the smell of old coffee and cleaning supplies faint but persistent. She can hear the murmur of voices from a room at the end of the corridor, and she’s struck by a sudden, irrational urge to leave before anyone notices her.

The room itself is unremarkable: a few mismatched chairs arranged in a circle, a folding table stacked with papers and styrofoam coffee cups, a single window overlooking the fire escape. Piper takes in the other attendees with quick, practiced glances. There are about ten of them, all seated and engaged in quiet conversation. An older man with glasses perched precariously on his nose is scribbling in a notebook, while a woman in her twenties leans back in her chair, arms crossed, observing the room with a faintly amused expression. Then there is Alex, although she doesn’t know her name yet.

Piper’s eyes land on her almost instinctively. Alex sits with her legs stretched out in front of her, her boots scuffed, and her dark hair loosely tucked behind one ear. There’s a faint smirk on her face, like she knows a secret no one else in the room has guessed yet. She is holding a paperback book in one hand, its spine bent from repeated reading. Piper looks away quickly, aware of a small flutter of nerves that has no logical explanation.

She chooses a seat slightly removed from the main cluster of attendees, close enough to be part of the group but far enough to avoid immediate scrutiny. When someone offers her a cup of coffee, she declines with a smile that feels too wide. The group’s organiser, a woman named Polly with a warm but harried energy, welcomes her and asks her name. Piper answers quietly, and her voice sounds more tentative than she would like.

Polly begins the session with introductions, asking everyone to introduce and share a little about themselves and what they’re working on. Piper listens intently trying to remember everyone’s name. She is struck by how confidently some of them speak. One person is drafting a memoir, another working on a novel they describe as “a love story without love.” When her turn comes, she stumbles over her words, offering a vague explanation about wanting to “get back into writing.” She’s painfully aware of Alex’s gaze on her.

When it’s Alex’s turn, her voice is low and even, tinged with a casual confidence that fills the room without seeming to try. “I’m working on something experimental,” she says, and leaves it at that. A silence follows, expectant yet unanswered. Alex mouth quirks into a faint smirk that suggests she knows exactly how vague she sounds. Her posture is loose but calculated, one arm draped over the back of her chair while the other rests on her thigh, her fingers idly tapping a rhythm Piper can’t quite place. Her dark hair falls in a careless wave over one shoulder, and her sharp cheekbones catch the fluorescent light just enough to add a shadow of mystery. Piper feels a mix of irritation and intrigue coil in her chest, like curiosity edging out annoyance the longer she looks. Who is this person who seems to command attention by doing so little? It’s maddening, yet she finds herself leaning forward slightly, as though proximity might offer answers.

Later, Alex comments on a story presented by the older man with glasses. “I think you’ve got something interesting here, Joe” she begins, and her tone is laced with dry humour that carries just the right amount of bite to make it entertaining without tipping into unkindness. She leans back slightly, delivering a witty remark that sparks laughter around the room. Piper catches herself smiling almost involuntarily. It’s the kind of smile that sneaks up on her like a quiet rebellion against the guardedness she usually carries.

Joe adjusts his glasses, and a sheepish grin spreads across his face as he murmurs, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Piper shifts in her chair and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear as if the movement might ground her. She imagines herself saying something just as incisive, something that might leave the same impression Alex’s words do, but the thought feels far away.

The meeting drags on in a rhythm that feels both slow and somehow too fast. Everyone takes turns reading a snippet of their work, and the usual dynamics unfold. Some stories are met with polite nods and perfunctory comments, while others spark more thoughtful pauses that linger in the air before someone finally speaks. Piper listens with half an ear while her focus drifts in and out like a faulty radio signal. Her eyes wander to the peeling paint on the walls, the scuffed linoleum floor, the way the daylight has begun to fade behind the fire escape visible through the lone window. She notices the older man adjusting his glasses as he jots down a note, the woman in her twenties chewing absentmindedly on the cap of her pen as she leans back in her chair.

But her thoughts keep slipping away and settling into that familiar, restless ache in her chest. It’s been weeks since she’s written anything that felt even remotely meaningful, weeks since she’s allowed herself to think about writing without feeling like she’s failing. Her notebook lies unopened on her lap, her fingers brushing absently over its worn cover. She wonders, not for the first time, what she’s even doing here, surrounded by people who seem so much surer of their words and their voices. The question hovers, unanswered, as the session trudges on.

The group is almost done with the round of readings when Alex leans back in her chair, glancing sideways at Piper for the briefest of moments before turning her attention to the woman reading aloud. It’s as if she knows Piper is watching, because she is. Alex doesn’t acknowledge her, no smile, no nod, but something about the moment clings to Piper, making it hard to breathe evenly, and she feels her stomach tighten with a mix of awareness and embarrassment.

She forces her attention back to the woman who’s reading. The piece is about a character’s loss, the kind of story Piper knows all too well. The woman’s voice falters on certain phrases, her words skimming just shy of something raw and painful. It’s in the hesitations, the brief stumbles, that Piper feels the story’s weight. She knows what it’s like to hold back, to feel the sharp edge of something you can’t quite express. Hearing someone else struggle with it feels oddly intimate, almost too much. Her fingers twitch over the cover of her notebook, a gesture as involuntary as it is useless. It’s not as if she’d know what to write, even if she tried.

When it’s finally her turn, Piper’s heart races in her chest. She takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the group’s collective gaze settle over her. Polly, sitting at the front of the circle, leans forward slightly, her hands resting on the table, her voice gentle but encouraging. “Piper, if you feel ready, would you like to share a bit of what you’ve been working on? But of course, since it’s your first day, don’t feel like you have to. If you’re not prepared, it’s perfectly fine to just listen today.”

Piper clears her throat, trying to sound confident.

“I, uh...” Her words feel like they’re caught somewhere in her throat. She glances around the room, feeling the group’s silent expectation. “I’ve been trying to write something more personal. I guess it’s... about the things we don’t say. About... what we keep hidden, and why.” She presses her lips together, suddenly embarrassed by the vulnerability of it all. The room is silent for a beat longer than she’s comfortable with, but Polly’s nodding, and her expression is open and understanding. She’s been here before, Piper thinks.

Alex, however, seems distracted. She’s tapping her fingers on the edge of her chair, looking at something in the distance. Piper can’t help but feel disappointed, though she’s not sure why. It’s silly to expect anything more from her, she reminds herself. It’s just a writing group.

But then, as if on cue, Alex speaks. “I think what you’re saying, about what we keep hidden, is interesting.” She glances over at Piper now. “But I wonder if you’re trying to make it too neat. Like you’re tying up these loose ends that maybe don’t need to be tied. Sometimes people just... don’t say things. Sometimes, the hiding itself doesn’t come with a reason.”

Piper feels something in her tighten. Surprise, discomfort, something else. And she bites back the urge to argue. Instead, she nods, trying to hide the sudden wave of self-doubt washing over her. Of course. Of course, Alex would think that. It’s what she always thinks, isn’t it? That life isn’t neat. That it’s messy and incomplete, and that’s what makes it real.

“I don’t know,” she says. Her voice is quieter this time. “Maybe I’m just tired of pretending that not everything needs an explanation.” She feels like she’s speaking into the silence, into some kind of void.

Alex keeps looking at her, her eyes softening for a fraction of a second before she nods, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Maybe we all are,” she says simply.

Silence follows for a few seconds and then it’s Polly who breaks the quiet, her voice and an upbeat clap of her hands bringing them all back to the present. “All right! Let’s wrap it up for tonight. Great work, and let’s keep this momentum going next week!” Her gaze, warm and encouraging, lands on Piper. "We’d love to have you back.” Piper smiles warmly.

The group shifts as people stand, stretching their legs, adjusting their chairs. Piper sits back, feeling like she’s been exposed in ways she didn’t expect. Her skin feels tight, like she’s just said too much. She glances at Alex, and their eyes meet for a brief moment again.

The room hums with a quiet energy. Joe, now visibly relaxed, leans back in his chair and adjusts his frames. “Well,” he says with a wry smile looking at Alex, “that was… wow. Quite an adventure in literary critique, Alex.”

“An adventure?” the woman in her twenties interjects, her tone playful but edged with scepticism. She crosses her legs and tilts her head, her dark curls falling over one shoulder. “That’s a generous take. I’d call it more of a detour.”

The room chuckles, a few voices murmuring agreement. Piper, clutching her bag, watches the exchange from the edge of her seat. She feels the pull of wanting to contribute but stops short, unsure if her voice belongs in this chorus yet.

Alex’s voice cuts through the laughter, smooth and unhurried. “You’d rather stick to the main road, huh?”

“Classic Tasha,” adds Joe.

“Sounds boring to me.” Alex’s smirk widens as the woman scoffs lightly, raising her hands in mock surrender.

“Fine,” she concedes, “you win this round.”

As the group begins to actually break apart and people start to leave, Piper stays in her seat a little longer, reluctant to join the chatter. She catches snippets of conversation around her, people discussing their plans for the rest of the evening. From her spot near the edge of the circle, her eyes flick to Alex again, who is leaning back with a practised ease, her long legs crossed at the ankles. And then, as if to cut through the fog of her thoughts, Alex’s voice reaches her.

“You know,” she says, her voice cutting through the ambient chatter, “newcomers are always the most interesting people to watch. They haven’t learned how to hide their reactions yet.” Her eyes flick to Piper, who feels her stomach drop slightly at the sudden attention.

Piper, still clutching her bag, smiles faintly as she watches Alex stroll over to the table to grab her book. Her leather boots scuff lightly against the linoleum as she passes by, then she pauses just long enough to glance at Piper. “See you next week,” she says, her voice low as always, almost conspiratorial.

Piper lingers for a moment, watching the group filter out, and hearing their voices trail down the hallway. The older man with glasses is talking animatedly to the woman in her twenties—Joe and Tasha, she forces herself to remember their names—their conversation punctuated by quick, bright bursts of laughter. Polly is tidying up the coffee cups, humming under her breath.

And Alex, as she exits, tosses a lazy wave over her shoulder, as though she already knows Piper will be back.

Polly straightens, brushing her hands against her jeans, and catches Piper’s eye. “So,” she says, with a warm smile that softens the slight weariness in her expression, “how was your first night? Not too terrifying, I hope?”

Piper hesitates, then shakes her head. “No, it was good. Everyone’s really… sharp, though.”

Polly chuckles. “Yeah, they don’t hold back, do they? But that’s how you grow, I guess. You’re brave for jumping in.”

“Not sure brave is the word,” Piper mutters. “More like… impulsive.”

“Well, whatever it is, you’re here, and that’s what matters.” Polly grabs a stray coffee cup and places it on the tray. “Oh, by the way, some of the group members run a little blog where we share work sometimes. Nothing fancy, just a space to put stuff out there, see how it lands. It’s called ‘Penumbra,’ you should check it out.”

“A blog?” Piper’s brow furrows slightly. “Like, anyone can read it?”

“Pretty much,” Polly says, shrugging. “But it’s not exactly trending or anything. Mostly just us and a few random readers who stumble across it. You don’t have to post anything if you’re not ready, but it’s a good way to see what people are working on. Might help you get a feel for the group.”

Piper nods slowly, mulling it over. “Yeah, maybe. Thanks.”

“No pressure,” Polly adds, her tone is light as she picks up the tray. “Just something to think about.” She gives Piper a small wave before heading toward the kitchenette, leaving her alone in the now-empty room.

The bus ride home is uneventful, the city moving past in muted shades of grey and yellow, punctuated by the occasional glow of a streetlamp or the soft buzz of a neon sign. Piper sits by the window, her reflection faintly superimposed over the cityscape, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her mind drifts to the group, in particular to Alex’s clipped sentences and the way her hands moved as she spoke. At some point, she remembers reading that crossing your arms is a defensive mechanism, the kind of thing you might learn at a self-help workshop or read in a pop psychology article. She doesn’t know why the thought resurfaces now, but she realises her arms are still crossed. For a fleeting moment, she considers uncrossing them, sitting up straighter, maybe letting her hands rest more casually on her lap. But the idea feels oddly performative, and instead, she stays as she is, gazing out at the blurred lights of passing buildings.

Her apartment is small but feels larger in the dim evening light, softened by the warm glow of a table lamp. Books line one wall, their spines a chaotic mix of muted tones and bright splashes of colour. A single framed print hangs crookedly above the desk, a gift from a friend years ago.

She kicks off her shoes near the door, shedding the day like a second skin, and pours herself a glass of wine, the dark liquid pooling in the bottom of the glass. The sound of the cork popping and the faint clink of glass against the counter feel grounding, small rituals anchoring her to this space.

Her MacBook Air sits on the desk, a thin layer of dust catching the light on its edges. Piper opens it and the screen glows to life. She types “Penumbra blog” into the search bar. The site loads quickly, its design spare but elegant: a simple white background with black serif text, the kind of aesthetic that feels deliberate rather than minimalist.

She clicks on one of the first posts, a poem by Alex. The title is understated, just a single word: “Silhouette.”

In the shadow of the day’s end,

The quiet hum of everything unsaid

Fills the spaces we pretend to ignore.

 

A hand lingers, not reaching,

Just a breath away from touching

Something too fragile to hold.

 

And in the silence, the dark blooms,

Swallowing edges, softening shapes,

Until all that’s left is the outline

Of what we could not keep.

Piper reads it twice. The words feel raw and carefully chosen, like a balance of vulnerability and restraint that makes her ache in a way she can’t quite name. She scrolls down but finds no more posts by Alex. The name appears only once on the list of contributors, alongside an email and a phone number. She saves it on her phone and then she stares at the screen for a moment, the cursor blinking steadily in the search bar, as if waiting for her next move. Then, for no apparent reason, the glow of the laptop screen feels too stark against the soft lighting of the room, and she closes it with a quiet click.

She stands, stretching slightly. She changes into a nightgown, the loose fabric brushing softly against her skin, and tucks her hair back into a messy knot. Then she pours another half-glass of wine and carries it to the sofa.

The apartment feels quieter now, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen. She sinks into the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her, and rests the glass on the armrest for a moment. She knows she should be in bed by now, but instead, she’s holding her phone, staring at it as though waiting for something to happen. She taps the screen, scrolling through her contacts. Alex’s name stares back at her.

Hi, Alex. This is Piper from the writing group. Hope I’m not bothering you. I got your number from the blog Polly suggested I check out. I saw the prompts listed there, and I wanted to ask... how strict are they? I noticed everyone in the group shared something so different. Are they flexible or is there a theme each week?

She rereads it. It sounds fine. Too fine. She deletes it. Then she tries again, her thumb tapping nervously against the screen.

Hey, it’s Piper from the group. I got your number off the blog. Hope that’s not weird. I’ve been looking at the prompts and... I don’t know, they seem a bit open-ended? I mean, people’s pieces were all so different today. I was wondering how they work.

She stares at the message for a moment, taking another sip of wine, which settles her nerves just a bit with the warmth of it. She finally presses send, almost immediately regretting it, but she holds her breath, waiting. There. It’s out there now.

A minute or so passes, and then the three dots appear.

Alex:hi, Piper

Alex: not weird at all. I’m glad Polly mentioned the blog

Alex:and yeah, the prompts are pretty flexible, they’re meant more as a starting point, but people can take them in whatever direction feels right

Alex:does that help?

Piper lets out a breath. Okay. That wasn’t so bad. She taps out her next message, trying to sound casual but wanting to keep the conversation going.

Piper: Yeah, I guess I was overthinking it

Piper: I’m new to sharing my writing, so it’s a bit intimidating

Piper: But the group seems really supportive

Alex: it is

Alex:I’m glad you got that impression and that I didn’t scare you off

A quiet smile tugs at Piper’s lips, her teeth grazing her bottom lip as she reads.

Alex: it’s a good space to get feedback and just put yourself out there a little

Alex:what kind of stuff do you like to write?

Piper pauses, staring at her screen. What kind of stuff did she like to write? She hesitates, her fingers hovering over the keyboard before typing.

Piper:A bit of fiction, a bit of personal essays, I guess

Piper:Nothing as polished as what I heard tonight, though

Alex:you’d be surprised

Alex: everyone feels that way at first

Piper smiles softly at the screen again. She hadn’t expected Alex to be so... encouraging. It was disarming.

Piper:That’s nice to hear

Piper:How long have you been in the group?

Alex: a couple of years

Alex: it’s become a bit of a constant for me

Alex: I don’t always share something, but it’s nice to listen

Alex:and I’ve met some great people through it

Piper:Including Polly, I assume? She seems great

Alex:she is, and she’s great at this whole writing group thing

Alex:she’s been nudging me to share more but I’m better at reading other people’s work than showing my own

Piper:I find that hard to believe

Piper:I thought your poem on the blog was great. It really stuck with me

Alex’s response takes a moment longer this time. Piper imagines her sitting somewhere, maybe on her own sofa, frowning slightly at her phone in thought.

Alex:kind of dark, though, wasn’t it?

Piper: It was, but in a good way

Piper:It felt raw and honest. I liked that

Alex:you’re full of compliments tonight

Piper laughs softly, the sound surprising her in the quiet of her apartment.

Alex:I’m looking forward to seeing what you bring next week

Piper hesitates, her thumbs hovering over the screen. She wants to keep the conversation going, to ask more, to say more, but it feels like a natural place to pause. And it’s late anyway.

Piper:Thanks for answering my questions

Piper:And for being so nice about it

Piper: See you next week

There’s no response after that, and Piper feels a small, sharp pang in her chest, the kind that makes her stomach dip unexpectedly. She sets her phone down, her thoughts circling back to Alex’s last message. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you bring next week.” She smiles.

She moves through her nightly routine, waiting for a response that never comes. As she brushes her teeth absentmindedly the quiet, unanswered end to their exchange needles at her faint but insistent. She tells herself it’s ridiculous to let this bother her, but somehow it does. She slips under the covers. The sheets feel cool against her skin as she shifts restlessly before finally falling into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, her alarm blares, dragging her out of her dreams. She groans, blindly reaching for her phone on the bedside table. She taps to silence the noise, but before she sets it down again, something catches her eye. A white notification box, brighter than usual on the lockscreen. Her heart almost skips a beat as she reads the name: Alex.

The message is simple: goodnight, Piper

She stares at it. A warmth blooms in her chest, inexplicable but undeniable. She imagines Alex’s voice saying her name, “goodnight, Piper.” The thought sends a flicker of heat to her cheeks, and she sinks back into the pillows, pressing her hands to her face. She reads the message again and thinks about Alex typing it. Why did she take so long to respond? Was she hesitating too? Did she consider not sending it? The thought sends another wave of warmth through her, this one steadier, more comforting.

She lies there for a moment longer, staring at the screen, until the brightness makes her blink. Finally, she places the phone on her bedside table. She burrows deeper into the blankets, her cheeks still warm, letting herself indulge in the quiet, giddy excitement for just a little while longer before the day begins.