Subtext

Piper had spent the past week staring at her laptop and her notebook, trying to turn fragmented thoughts into something resembling a cohesive piece of writing. The prompt on the blog— “Outgrowing”—had caught her off guard. If Polly hadn’t mentioned the blog, she wouldn’t even have known there were prompts to follow. Was that how it worked? Did everyone else just quietly check in each week? Had Polly gone out of her way to clue her in? The thought made her feel both grateful and slightly embarrassed.

She had thought about texting Alex a couple of times during the week, nothing important, just a casual text. But each time, she’d stopped herself. She didn’t want to come across as strange or pushy, and she certainly didn’t want to be the person who couldn’t leave well enough alone. Alex had replied to her message last week, and that was enough. More than enough, really.

Her days have been busy, anyway. Between managing orders at her dad’s company—a distribution firm that had somehow kept thriving despite its clunky operations—and trying to keep up with everything else, there wasn’t much time to agonise over her writing or whether it was ridiculous to keep showing up to the group. The job isn’t exactly her passion, but it pays well, and it is comfortable in the way things can be when you aren’t the one taking risks. She lives comfortably, a fact she sometimes feels self-conscious about. The piece she’s written this week is short, not even two pages, and even she isn’t sure it is substantial enough to share. It’s a loosely structured reflection on her first summer working at the company, more a sketch than a story, and she feels embarrassed at how small and personal it seems. Still, it has a rawness to it, something that feels true, even if it isn’t polished.

Now, as she walks toward the community centre where the group meets, her notebook tucked under her arm, she feels a mix of excitement and dread, like stepping into a story whose ending she can’t predict. The building is as unremarkable as she remembered, just another functional space in a city full of them. She doesn’t even notice the peeling paint or mismatched chairs anymore. She scans the room automatically, her eyes flicking from face to face. Alex isn’t there. She hesitates by the door for a moment before forcing herself to move further inside, settling into a chair and pretending not to notice the way her gaze keeps wandering toward the entrance. She feels foolish for caring so much.

The meeting feels different without Alex. She can’t quite put her finger on why. It isn’t as though Alex was loud or dominating the week before, but her presence had this way of anchoring the room. She finds herself distracted and she wonders if anyone notices. When it’s her turn, she reads her reflection aloud. The words sound different in the air than they had in her head, more tentative, like they’re searching for their own meaning as she speaks them. The group’s feedback is encouraging. Joe mentions that the imagery feels vivid, and Tasha suggests expanding one part into a full scene. Someone else—a member whose name she can’t quite remember—says they like the emotional honesty of it, which feels both validating and slightly embarrassing. Piper nods along, grateful but unconvinced, making mental notes she isn’t sure she’ll actually act on later.

When the meeting ends, she lingers outside with Tasha and Joe, the three of them standing in the cool evening air. The streetlights cast long, uneven shadows across the pavement, mingling with the dim glow spilling from the community centre’s windows. The distant hum of traffic fills the gaps in their conversation. They talk about the pieces shared that night, the usual post-meeting chatter, offhand comments about phrasing, musings about what worked or what didn’t. Piper tries to focus on their words, but her mind keeps wandering.

She hesitates, the question forming and dissolving in her head multiple times before she finally manages to ask, “Does Alex usually come to every meeting?” Her tone is carefully light, almost too casual, as though she’s asking about the weather.

Tasha and Joe exchange a brief glance that Piper can’t quite interpret. “Most of the time,” Joe says after a pause. “But she skips sometimes.”

“Personal stuff,” Tasha adds gently in a softer voice that’s almost cautious. “She doesn’t usually talk about it. It’s... delicate.”

Piper nods quickly, her face warming under the streetlights’ glow. “Right, of course,” she murmurs, forcing a small smile that she hopes signals she isn’t prying. She doesn’t press for more, but their vague response only deepens her curiosity, and she feels restless in a way she can’t explain.

The conversation shifts, naturally pulling away from Alex, and Piper makes an effort to follow along, laughing in the right places, nodding when appropriate.

Eventually, Joe checks his phone and sighs, stretching his arms behind his head. “I should get going,” he says. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Tasha nods in agreement. “Yeah, same. But it was good today.” She looks at Piper. “Glad you shared your piece.”

Piper musters another small smile. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure about it.”

“Well, you should be. It was good.” Tasha’s voice is warm, genuine, and Piper wants to believe her.

They say their goodbyes, exchanging vague promises to grab coffee sometime, the kind of half-formed plans people make without really expecting to follow through. Then Piper is alone, standing beneath the streetlights. She exhales, pushing her hands into the pockets of her coat, and starts walking.

The thought of going home though, of sitting alone in the quiet makes her stomach twist. She doesn’t feel like slipping into that kind of stillness tonight. Her steps are slow as she reaches the next corner. She could go home. She could take a shower, make a cup of tea, scroll through her phone until she’s too tired to keep her eyes open. But the thought feels suffocating, like an obligation rather than a choice. Instead, she veers left, away from her route, heading toward the busier streets. Maybe she’ll go to a bar, sit in the background somewhere, let the noise of strangers’ conversations fill whatever space is growing inside her.

She’s just passing the community centre again when she hears her name. Turning, she spots Polly stepping out onto the pavement, wrapping a long scarf around her neck. Their eyes meet, and Polly gives her an amused look.

“Piper,” she says, drawing out the syllables like she’s considering something. “You looked like you were on a mission.”

Piper hesitates, then shrugs. “Just felt like walking.”

Polly studies her for a moment, then nods, falling into step beside her. “Anywhere in particular?”

Piper exhales through her nose, glancing at the street ahead of them. “Not really. Just... away.”

Polly grins at that. “Mind if I join you? I can work with away.”

Piper laughs.

They end up at a quiet bar, the kind of place that isn’t trying too hard to be anything. Dim lighting, mismatched furniture, music playing just loud enough to fill the silences but not loud enough to demand they shout over it. They slip into a booth by the window, and Polly orders them both drinks before Piper can even think to protest.

“You seem like a margarita kind of person,” Polly says, raising an eyebrow as she slides Piper’s glass toward her. “Am I wrong?”

Piper tilts her head, considering. “I don’t know if I have a kind of person.”

“Well, we’ll find out tonight.”

Piper smirks, lifting the glass. “That’s very scientific of you.”

They drink, talk. At first, it’s about the writing group, who is interesting, who’s annoying, who they think is secretly a genius and who’s just pretentious. Then, gradually, it becomes something else. Polly tells her about the time she almost got arrested for trespassing when she was sixteen because she and some friends broke into an abandoned hotel just to see what it looked like inside. She also, in the same breath, jokes about how she’s recently divorced and hasn’t had a date in over six months, like it’s some kind of tragic record. They both laugh and joke around. They’re still strangers, in many ways, but there’s an ease between them that Piper hadn’t expected. She doesn’t feel like she has to try too hard, doesn’t feel like she’s performing some version of herself she thinks she’s supposed to be. When Polly laughs, it’s warm and real. And so is she.

Polly studies her for a long moment, fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. “You know,” she says slowly, almost as if she’s thinking aloud, “you have this energy about you. Like you’re light, like you’re easy to be around. But your eyes… I don’t know. They make me think you’ve carried a lot.” She hesitates, then exhales a small laugh. “Sorry. That probably sounded weird. Or intrusive. Ignore me.”

Piper doesn’t ignore her. She rolls her glass between her palms, watching the liquid catch the light. “No, it’s fine,” she says, but her voice is thin.

Polly doesn’t push. She only waits, and in the quiet that stretches between them, Piper feels something loosen, like a thread pulled just enough to unravel a seam.

“I get that often. I mean, people tell me I look sad all the time. My family, I mean” she pauses. “I think I’m grieving,” she says at last, so softly it almost disappears into the low hum of the bar. “I haven’t been the same since my brother passed.”

Polly’s expression shifts. “Oh, Piper,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

Piper swallows, nodding slightly, fingers tightening around her glass. “Yeah. He was one of the people who died in that bus accident a couple of years ago. The one on the M14 in Manhattan.” She pauses, pressing her lips together before forcing the words out. “A woman was high out of her mind behind the wheel. Ran a red light. Hit the bus at an intersection.” She exhales shakily.

Polly’s face is stricken, her hands motionless against the worn wooden table. She nods. “I remember that” she says. “God, that was horrible.”

Piper nods, the weight of it pressing against her ribs. But saying it out loud with Polly sitting across from her, not looking away, not scrambling for empty reassurances, somehow makes the heaviness a little easier to bear.

“I’m sorry if that was too much. I didn’t mean to like drag you into something you weren’t ready to talk about.”

Piper shakes her head, surprised at how the weight on her chest lightens just a little. “It’s not too much. I guess I’m... just not really good at talking about it,” she admits. “Or... I don’t know. I just want to forget sometimes, but then it’s like you can’t. You know?”

Polly nods, her lips curving up just slightly. “I know,” she says quietly. “My mom always says that the things we don’t say are the things that end up staying with us the longest.”

Piper presses her lips together, feeling the quiet hum of the room and the dull thrum of music in the background. “I guess it’s nice… to not have to pretend it’s not there.”

Polly’s smile is small, but it feels genuine, the kind of smile that feels like understanding rather than sympathy. She leans back in her chair, still looking at Piper. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Piper isn’t sure what to say to that, so she just nods. Her fingers, which had been tight around the glass, relax a little.

Polly tilts her head, watching Piper as she absentmindedly traces the rim of her glass. “So,” she begins and her tone is light, “onto happier things, anyone in your life?” She winks, “Or are you too busy being a mysterious, brooding writer?”

Piper chuckles, shaking her head. “Mysterious, huh? I think that’s a stretch. I’m just...also not very good at the whole dating thing.” She laughs.

Polly raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? I’d have pegged you as the type who’d have a string of admirers.”

Piper laughs again, though it feels a little tight.

“But yeah,” Polly says, her eyes flicking over Piper’s face as if she’s trying to read something between the lines. “It’s... easier to be alone sometimes, right? Less complicated.”

“Yeah,” Piper agrees, her gaze dropping to her glass, fingers curling around it a little tighter. “It’s just... yeah. Less room for disappointment.”

Polly watches her for a moment. “You don’t seem like the type who runs from things, though.”

Piper looks up at Polly with a half-smile. “Oh, believe me, I am exactly that type. But I’m starting to think it’s easier to just... not get involved altogether. Avoid the mess of it all.”

Polly leans back in her chair, her fingers tapping against the table rhythmically. “Yeah, but that’s the thing with not getting involved, isn’t it? You miss the good stuff too. Even if it’s messy.”

Piper raises an eyebrow. “You think that’s worth it? The mess?”

Polly pauses, glancing at her drink before meeting Piper’s eyes again. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always thought that the mess was part of what makes it real. Otherwise, it’s just... surface level, right?”

Piper nods slowly, considering her words. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

“Yeah” Polly agrees. She smiles, a small, knowing thing. “It’s hard to figure out what’s worth diving into if you’re too busy keeping your distance.”

Piper laughs lightly, a little rueful. “I guess we both seem to be good at that.”

Polly’s smile grows slightly, and she shrugs. “Well, we’re not exactly getting any younger, are we? Maybe we should just... take a chance at some point. You know, stop worrying so much about what could go wrong.”

They fall into a comfortable silence for a moment, the conversation flowing easily again, before Polly stands up and stretches, glancing toward the door.

“Well, I guess I should let you get some rest. But hey,” she says, with a slight grin. “If you decide to throw caution to the wind and end up having a disastrous date, you know where to find me. I’ll be here to listen to all the details.”

Piper shakes her head, smiling as she gathers her things. “Right. I’ll let you know how it goes. If I ever stop being such a hermit.”

Polly laughs softly. “Good. You better. I’m holding you to that.” She steps toward the door and pauses, looking back at Piper. “Take care of yourself, alright?”

Piper gives her a brief, nodding smile. “You too. See you next week.”

Piper stumbles slightly as she steps off the bus, the cool night air cutting through her buzzed state, reminding her that she’s not quite as steady on her feet as she thought. It’s been a while since she’s had a drink, and even longer since she’s hung out with someone who wasn’t just a coworker. She smiles to herself, feeling a little warm from the inside out. The evening with Polly had been… refreshing. And easy. Fun, even. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed that. How long it had been since she’d just talked with someone, without any pretenses.

Her keys jingle in her hand as she fumble-locks her door, stepping inside her flat and kicking off her shoes. The stillness of her place greets her, the quiet almost too loud in contrast to the low hum of the bar. She makes her way to the kitchen, putting the kettle on instinctively, even though it’s too late for tea.

The thoughts swirl in her head, faster than the quiet settling around her. Polly’s words linger, the “throw caution to the wind” advice still echoing. It had been about dating, hadn’t it? About taking risks with people, making the leap even when it felt uncertain. But why is it that, when she thinks of those words now, her mind immediately jumps to Alex? It doesn’t make sense. Alex doesn’t fit into any of that. She barely knows her.

But, god, why is she still thinking about her?

It’s stupid. She doesn’t like Alex like that. She barely even knows her.

The kettle boils, breaking her from the spiralling thoughts, and she pours the hot water, watching the steam curl up and dissipate. She swipes at her phone absent-mindedly, glancing at the screen without any real intention, and then her fingers are moving before she can stop them. The text is simple, casual:

Piper:Hey, you weren’t at the meeting today. Everything okay?

She feels stupid. It’s not like her to reach out like this, to make the first move. She should just let it go. But she can’t quite seem to erase the thought of Alex from her mind, even though it doesn’t make sense. The message feels so... small. So insignificant. But still, she hovers over the send button for a few moments, like there’s some chance she’ll delete it, like maybe she should rethink this. She feels a small pang of discomfort, but, before she can talk herself out of it, her thumb presses send.

She sits at the kitchen counter, staring at the phone as if it might do something, anything, to reassure her that she hasn’t done something ridiculous. But the phone just sits there, quiet and unresponsive, and the longer she waits, the more stupid she feels for sending the message in the first place. She taps her fingers against the surface, the rhythmic sound almost too loud in the silence of her flat.

The minutes drag on, and her mind starts to race again. What was she even hoping for? A response? A reason to keep this... whatever it is... going? She doesn’t even know what it is. It’s just Alex. She doesn’t even know why it matters so much. She can’t quite place it.

Her phone buzzes suddenly, and her heart jumps. She snatches it up, almost knocking her mug off the counter in her haste.

It’s a message from Alex.

Alex: would you want to grab coffee tomorrow?

Piper blinks at the screen, the words pulling her attention sharply. Just like that, Alex’s casual tone makes something in her chest tighten. She stares at the message, hesitating. It’s a simple question. It could be no big deal. But somehow, it feels like more than that. She can’t tell if that’s her overthinking things.

After a moment, she starts typing, trying to keep it light, to make it easy.

Piper: Sure, but I only have a small window tomorrow. Maybe around 11? It would have to be near my office

She presses send before she can talk herself out of it, eyes still fixed on the screen as she waits for the response. It feels like time slows as she watches the dots appear and disappear.

Alex: where’s near your office?

The simplicity of the question catches her off guard. Just a place. Just coffee.

Piper: 42nd and 5th?

She types, then adds quickly, 

Piper:There’s a place there I like

She waits for what feels like an eternity, checking her phone every few seconds, before Alex’s reply comes through.

Alex: perfect. see you then