GPT-5.2 Short Story

The first time the topic came up, it arrived disguised as a joke.

It was the second Tuesday of the month, and the Maple Street Writers’ Circle had gathered in the back room of the library where the carpet carried the faint, permanent scent of old glue and winter boots. The room was always too bright, fluorescent lights flattening everyone’s face into a kind of honest exhaustion. There were twelve folding chairs arranged in a ring, twelve paper cups of water sweating onto the table at the side, and, as usual, the same bulletin board on the wall with the same curling flyers: “TAX HELP FOR SENIORS,” “BEGINNER’S KNITTING,” “VOTE HERE.”

Mara arrived five minutes early, because she’d learned that arriving five minutes late meant walking into the soft, collective inhalation of the group. As if her entrance were a minor event that needed to be absorbed and forgiven.

The group was already half seated. Lyle, who wrote historical mysteries and wore a tweed cap year-round as though he’d been born into it, was leaning in to say something to Juniper, who wrote poems that always ended in questions. Neil was balancing a coffee on his knee, elbow cocked like a bird’s wing. Harriet was setting out printed pages in careful piles, as if the order of paper could impose order on a life.

And Ethan—Ethan was talking.

Mara didn’t know Ethan well, though she’d been coming for almost a year. He was newish, and the group had adopted him with the quick, pleased warmth of people who liked to be seen as welcoming. He was the kind of member who did his homework, who read everyone’s submissions, who made a point of offering something positive first. A golden retriever in a denim jacket. He was also, lately, the kind of member whose work had become… impressive.

Not in the ways Mara trusted.

His stories arrived polished in a way that made Mara suspicious of polish. They had metaphors that glimmered like they’d been rubbed with a cloth. They had pacing that never stumbled. They had sentences that landed with a satisfying thud, like bricks being stacked. Mara’s own work, by contrast, arrived with visible seams. It arrived carrying the scent of her night before: the kitchen table, the stubborn paragraph, the revised opening, the coffee that had gone cold twice.

She slid into a chair between Juniper and Harriet and pretended to find comfort in the minor rituals. She unzipped her bag, took out her printed pages, smoothed them with her palm. She looked at the title at the top of the first page and felt that familiar, unhelpful pang: *This is not good enough.* She told herself, also familiarly, *But it is yours.*

Ethan was finishing a story about a beekeeper and a missing child and the way grief could become its own kind of honey. There were a few murmurs of appreciation, the soft sound of pages being stacked and returned to folders.

“Okay,” Lyle said, clapping his hands once, as if applause could bring the group into focus. Lyle had been the organizer for years. He had the demeanor of a man who had once been forced to chair a committee and discovered he was good at it. “Before we dive in, quick reminder: next month is the open mic at the café. If you want to read, talk to me afterward. Also, please remember the workshop guidelines: critique the work, not the writer.”

Harriet raised her hand slightly. She never fully raised her hand, as if she were trying not to take up too much air.

“Yes?” Lyle said.

Harriet cleared her throat. “I just… I saw something online.” She glanced around the circle, her eyes landing on no one for too long. “About, you know. Tools people are using. For writing.”

A pause settled. Mara felt it physically, like a small weight placed on the center of the circle.

Neil’s mouth twitched. “Spellcheck?”

A few people laughed politely, the kind of laughter that proves you are on the side of the group.

Harriet smiled faintly, then looked down at her papers. “No. I mean… the other thing.”

Juniper’s eyebrows rose. “The robot thing.”

“The AI thing,” Harriet said, as if naming it might be an accusation. “I just wondered if we… if we need a guideline about it? Like, if people are using it to write their drafts.”

The room tightened. Mara watched it happen the way she watched weather move over a field: subtle, inevitable. People adjusted in their chairs. Someone cleared their throat. Lyle’s face took on an expression of managerial neutrality.

Ethan leaned back, stretching his arms over his head as if the topic were an inconvenience. “Are we doing this now?” he said, and his voice had the tone of someone who didn’t want to be bothered by drama.

“It’s not drama,” Harriet said quickly. “I just think, if we’re a writers’ group, it matters who’s writing.”

Neil shrugged. “Who cares? If it helps someone get unstuck, why not?”

Juniper tilted her head. “But if it’s writing for you, then… what are we critiquing?”

There it was, the question that made the air feel sharp.

Lyle cleared his throat again. “Let’s remember,” he said carefully, “that this group is about supporting each other. Not policing.”

Harriet’s cheeks flushed. “I’m not trying to police. I’m just—”

“People are paranoid,” Ethan said lightly, and he smiled as if he were tossing a harmless pebble into the circle. “Next thing you know we’ll be checking everyone’s browser history.”

That got a bigger laugh. The kind that relieves tension and also, Mara noticed, makes a person feel foolish for having raised the issue at all.

Harriet’s smile disappeared. She nodded as if she’d been corrected. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s a fair question,” Juniper said, but her voice was soft, and soft voices in a group could be swallowed by louder ones.

Neil lifted his cup. “To the robots,” he said. “May they never learn the difference between ‘its’ and ‘it’s.’”

The laughter returned, and the moment slid away.

Mara said nothing. She felt the words she could have spoken pressing against her teeth like something alive, but she didn’t let them out. She watched Harriet fold herself back into silence. She watched Lyle move the conversation on with a practiced cheeriness.

“All right,” Lyle said, picking up the stack of submissions. “First up tonight: Mara.”

Mara’s stomach dropped. Her pages suddenly felt heavier.

She passed her story around, the paper warm from her hands. She watched as people flipped to the first page, eyes scanning. She watched Ethan take the pages with a smile that looked like encouragement and, to Mara, felt like scrutiny.

As the group read, Mara’s thoughts kept drifting back to Harriet’s question. Not to the question itself, but to the way it had been received. The way the room had pulled away from it like a hand from a hot surface. The way the laughter had served as a lid.

She had noticed it before, in smaller ways. The group had its unspoken rules: you praised before you critiqued. You didn’t talk too much about money. You didn’t mention politics. You didn’t question whether someone’s work was truly their own.

But *that* had changed now, hadn’t it? Ownership wasn’t only about plagiarism anymore. It wasn’t only about stealing another person’s words. It was about outsourcing the act itself. And the group, it seemed, had decided that acknowledging this would be uncomfortable. So they didn’t.

They read Mara’s story in silence, and Mara waited to find out what kind of night this would be: the kind where the group helped her see her work more clearly, or the kind where she left feeling like she’d offered up a piece of herself and watched it be weighed.

Lyle looked up first. “All right,” he said, smiling. “This is the one with the dog, yes?”

Mara nodded. “It’s about—”

“We know,” Neil said, and grinned, as if Mara had already done something charming. “We read it.”

Mara forced a smile and waited.

Juniper spoke first, as she often did. “I like the opening,” she said, tapping the page gently. “The way you start with the smell. ‘Wet fur and laundry soap.’ That feels real.”

Mara exhaled a little.

Harriet, still flushed from earlier, offered a small nod. “The dialogue felt… honest,” she said, and her eyes flicked up to Mara’s for a moment, as if offering solidarity.

Then Ethan leaned forward. He always leaned forward when he critiqued, as if he wanted to show he was engaged. Mara had once found it reassuring. Tonight it made her want to lean back.

“This is good,” Ethan said. “There’s a lot to like here. The emotional core is strong. But I think you’re doing yourself a disservice with the middle section.”

Mara’s muscles tightened.

“It slows,” Ethan continued. “You have this great tension built up, and then you spend, what, two pages describing the kitchen and the dog’s habits? It’s… indulgent.”

Indulgent. The word landed like an insult dressed as advice.

Mara felt her cheeks heat. She wanted to defend those pages, because those pages were the story’s heartbeat. The dog’s habits were the way the narrator loved the dog. The kitchen details were the way the narrator tried to control grief by controlling objects. Mara had written it on purpose. She had sweated over it. She had chosen every mundane detail like a prayer.

But she also knew the group’s rules: you didn’t get defensive. You didn’t argue. You took notes and thanked people.

Neil chimed in. “Yeah,” he said. “I wanted to get back to the action.”

Juniper frowned slightly. “I didn’t mind the kitchen,” she said. “It felt like… ritual. Like the narrator was—”

“Sure,” Ethan said, smiling, “but the story’s already clear on grief. We don’t need to linger.”

Mara wrote “middle slows?” in her notebook with a hand that didn’t quite feel like her own.

Lyle offered his summary, smoothing things over. “I think Ethan’s point is about pacing,” he said. “You can keep the texture but tighten.”

Mara nodded. “Thank you,” she said, because that was what you said. Her voice sounded normal. Inside, she felt hollow.

When the critique moved on, Mara sat and listened, but she kept noticing Harriet. Harriet barely spoke. When she did, it was careful and small, as if she were afraid to be laughed at again.

After the meeting, as people gathered their pages and their cups and their coats, Mara lingered, shoving her story back into her folder with too much force. She felt irritated at herself for caring so much. She felt irritated at Ethan for saying “indulgent” as if writing were a luxury she’d been abusing. She felt irritated at the group for laughing too easily.

Harriet approached her at the table. Up close, Harriet looked older than Mara had realized, her hair streaked with silver that she didn’t dye, her hands slightly trembling as she put her papers into her bag.

“Mara,” Harriet said quietly. “Do you… do you want to get coffee sometime?”

Mara blinked. Harriet didn’t usually ask anyone for anything.

“Sure,” Mara said, and meant it.

Harriet hesitated, then leaned closer. “I’m sorry if I made things awkward,” she said. “About the AI thing.”

Mara shook her head. “You didn’t,” she said. “You asked a question.”

Harriet’s lips pressed together. “They act like it’s rude to even wonder.”

Mara glanced across the room. Ethan was laughing with Neil near the door, slipping his backpack on. Lyle was stacking chairs. Juniper was pinning her scarf around her neck.

“We’re supposed to be supportive,” Harriet continued, and her voice held a small bitterness now. “Supportive means pretending we don’t see things.”

Mara felt a chill. “Do you think someone is using it?” she asked.

Harriet’s eyes widened slightly, and for a second Mara thought she would refuse to answer. But then Harriet exhaled, and her shoulders sagged as if the question had been waiting for a place to land.

“I don’t know,” Harriet said. “I don’t know. I just… some of the work. It’s changed. It’s too… smooth. Like it’s been sanded down until there’s no grain.”

Mara thought of Ethan’s stories. The beekeeper. The missing child. The grief that became honey.

She also thought of Neil, whose writing had improved lately too, moving from clumsy punchlines to something more refined. She had assumed he was working harder. Now she wasn’t sure what she assumed.

Harriet looked at Mara as if asking permission to continue.

Mara heard herself say, “I’ve wondered.”

Harriet’s relief was visible. It was like watching someone finally set down a heavy bag.

“Exactly,” Harriet said. “You wonder, and then you tell yourself you’re being petty. You tell yourself you’re jealous. You tell yourself it’s none of your business.”

Mara swallowed. “And you don’t want to accuse anyone.”

Harriet nodded. “Because then you’re the problem. You’re the one bringing negativity. You’re the one who can’t just be happy for people.”

Mara had felt that pressure all year, in ways she hadn’t named. The group wanted harmony more than truth. And Mara, who had joined because she wanted feedback and community, had learned to perform harmony like everyone else.

“Coffee,” Mara said, more firmly. “Yes.”

Harriet’s smile was small but genuine. “Okay,” she said. “Text me.”

They exchanged numbers. Mara left the library with her folder clutched against her chest and a strange, uneasy sense that something had shifted, like a crack appearing in a wall you’d always assumed was solid.

Outside, the air was cold enough to sting. The parking lot was lit by orange lamps that made everything look slightly unreal. Mara sat in her car for a moment before starting it, watching her breath fog the windshield.

She thought about how writing had always been lonely. That loneliness was part of the work: you sat with your thoughts, you fought with your sentences, you tried to wrestle meaning out of chaos. A writers’ group was supposed to be an antidote to that loneliness. A place where you could share the burden and the joy.

But now, Mara realized, the group had a new kind of loneliness built in: the loneliness of pretending.

She started the car and drove home, her story in her bag like something fragile.

---

Two days later, Mara met Harriet at a café that smelled like burnt espresso and cinnamon. It was the kind of place with mismatched chairs and chalkboard menus and plants that were both decorative and dying. Harriet arrived wearing a wool coat and carrying a notebook that looked older than Mara’s.

They ordered coffee and sat in a corner away from the line of students tapping at laptops.

Harriet wrapped her hands around her cup as if warming them. “Thank you for meeting,” she said.

Mara shrugged. “I wanted to,” she said.

Harriet smiled again, then grew serious. “I know I sounded… paranoid,” she said.

“You didn’t,” Mara replied, though she wasn’t sure if that was true. Paranoia was, after all, a fear of being watched. Harriet’s fear was something else: fear of being lied to and being expected to smile about it.

Harriet looked down at her notebook. “I started writing when I retired,” she said. “It was something I wanted to do my whole life. I wasn’t good at it. I’m still not good at it. But I like the work. The struggle. The—” She searched for the word. “The making.”

Mara nodded. She understood that. The making was the point.

“I joined the group because I wanted to get better,” Harriet continued. “And because I wanted… community.” Her mouth tightened on the last word. “But lately, I don’t know what we’re doing. Everyone talks about craft, but it feels like we’re talking about something else. Like we’re… performing being writers.”

Mara stirred her coffee slowly. “Do you think the group is lying?” she asked.

Harriet hesitated. “I think some people are using AI,” she said finally, “and I think everyone else suspects it, and I think everyone is pretending not to.”

Mara felt a familiar discomfort, like standing near the edge of something and not wanting to look down. “Why would they pretend?” she asked.

Harriet’s eyes flicked up. “Because it’s easier,” she said. “Because conflict is messy. Because it’s embarrassing to admit you can’t tell. Because you don’t want to be the one who makes the group implode.”

Mara stared at her coffee. The surface was dark and reflective, like a small, contained lake.

“I feel like a terrible person for caring,” Mara admitted. “Like… if someone uses it, maybe it doesn’t affect me. Maybe I should just mind my own work.”

Harriet leaned forward slightly. “But it does affect you,” she said. “It affects what we’re doing together. It affects trust. If someone brings in a piece they didn’t really write, and we critique it, what are we doing? We’re critiquing a… product. Not a person’s process.”

Mara thought of Ethan’s critiques, the certainty with which he spoke about pacing and indulgence. What did that certainty mean if his own work had been shaped by something else? Did it matter? Mara felt both judgmental and naïve at the same time.

Harriet continued, “And it affects people who are struggling. If you’re working hard, and someone else shows up with something ‘perfect,’ you feel like you’re failing. You compare yourself to something that isn’t real.”

Mara’s throat tightened. She remembered the sting of Ethan’s smooth sentences. The feeling of her own work being rough in comparison.

“It’s like doping,” Mara said before she could stop herself.

Harriet blinked, then nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “And everyone says, ‘Don’t be dramatic.’”

They sat quietly for a moment, the café noises filling the space. A milk steamer hissed. Someone laughed loudly near the counter. A barista called out an order.

Mara glanced at Harriet. “What do you want to do?” she asked.

Harriet’s shoulders lifted in a small, helpless shrug. “I don’t know,” she said. “I wanted to say something, and I did, and they laughed. So maybe I just… stop coming.”

The thought hit Mara like a loss she hadn’t expected. Harriet’s writing wasn’t flashy, but it was hers. Her stories had edges and awkwardness and something Mara trusted.

“Don’t stop,” Mara said, surprising herself with how firm she sounded.

Harriet’s eyes softened. “Why not?” she asked gently.

Mara stared at her cup. “Because then the only people left will be the ones who don’t care,” she said. “Or the ones who benefit from pretending.”

Harriet’s fingers tightened on her cup. “So what do we do?”

Mara didn’t have an answer. She had only the feeling that if she did nothing, she would be complicit in something she couldn’t quite name. And she had the suspicion, uncomfortable as it was, that the group’s politeness was not neutral. It was a choice.

Mara said, “Maybe we talk to Lyle.”

Harriet’s face twisted. “Lyle doesn’t want to deal with it,” she said. “He wants the group to run smoothly. He wants people to come. He wants the library to keep giving us the room.”

Mara understood that too. Lyle had built something, and he didn’t want it to fall apart.

“Then maybe we talk to Juniper,” Mara said. “She seemed… not entirely dismissive.”

Harriet considered. “Juniper is kind,” she said. “Kindness isn’t the same as courage.”

Mara flinched. It felt like Harriet was also speaking about Mara. About herself.

Harriet sighed. “I’m tired,” she said. “I didn’t think writing would make me feel this… suspicious.”

Mara nodded. “Me neither.”

They finished their coffee. Before they left, Mara said, “What if we propose a guideline? Like… a disclosure rule. Not a ban. Just honesty.”

Harriet looked at her skeptically. “And then what?” she asked. “People will say it’s about trust. And then everyone will say, ‘Of course we trust each other.’ And then anyone who still worries will look like a jerk.”

Mara felt the truth of that. The social pressure wasn’t only to avoid accusing. It was to avoid even admitting suspicion existed.

Still, she said, “We could try.”

Harriet’s expression softened again, weary but not entirely hopeless. “Okay,” she said. “We can try.”

They left the café and stepped into the cold. Mara walked to her car with her shoulders hunched, feeling like she was carrying an invisible question that grew heavier the longer she held it.

---

At the next meeting, the question was already waiting in the room.

Mara arrived on time and found Ethan sitting in his usual chair, flipping through a stack of printed pages. He looked up and smiled at her as if nothing in the world was complicated.

“Hey, Mara,” he said. “Ready for tonight?”

Mara forced a smile and nodded. She sat down, aware of Harriet entering a moment later. Harriet caught Mara’s eye briefly, then looked away, as if afraid that being seen together would make them look like conspirators.

Lyle clapped his hands and began. “All right,” he said. “Tonight we have two submissions: Ethan and Juniper. Then, if there’s time, we can do a quick freewrite prompt.”

Mara’s pulse quickened. She hadn’t planned to bring up AI tonight. She’d promised Harriet they’d talk first, quietly. But now, hearing Ethan’s name first, Mara felt like she was standing on a moving platform.

Ethan passed out his story. The title was something lyrical: “The City of Borrowed Names.” Mara took the pages and looked at the first paragraph.

It was, of course, good.

It was good in the way his work always was lately: smooth, controlled, shimmering with phrasing that felt both fresh and strangely generic at the same time. It began with a vivid sensory image, moved quickly into a character’s internal conflict, introduced a mystery by the end of the first page. It was like watching someone juggle expertly.

Mara read carefully, trying to catch the seams. She found none. Or perhaps she found too many, in small ways: metaphors that piled neatly, emotional beats that arrived exactly when expected. It had the shape of quality.

When they finished reading, there was that moment of silence when everyone decided how much honesty the group could tolerate.

Lyle spoke first, as usual. “Well,” he said, smiling broadly. “Ethan, you’ve done it again.”

Ethan gave a modest shrug. “Just playing around,” he said. “You know.”

Neil chuckled. “Playing around,” he repeated, as if the phrase itself were funny.

Juniper spoke with careful appreciation. “The imagery is strong,” she said. “Especially the ‘streetlights like coins in a fountain.’”

Harriet’s hands were folded tightly in her lap. She said nothing.

Mara cleared her throat, surprising herself. “Can I ask something?” she said.

All eyes turned to her. The shift was subtle but immediate, like a spotlight snapping on.

“Sure,” Lyle said, his smile still fixed. “Go ahead.”

Mara felt her mouth go dry. She had not rehearsed this. She had not planned the exact words. She only knew she couldn’t keep swallowing the question forever.

“It’s… not about the story exactly,” Mara said slowly. She heard the caution in her own voice, the way she tried to make herself small. “It’s about process.”

Ethan’s smile remained, but his eyes sharpened slightly. “Okay,” he said.

Mara took a breath. “Are we… using AI tools in this group?” she asked. “Like, to generate drafts or rewrite things?”

The room went still. Mara felt the collective attention, the tension that had been lurking beneath the group’s politeness.

Lyle’s smile faltered. “We… talked about that briefly,” he said, and his tone was light, too light. “Last month, remember?”

Harriet’s cheeks flushed again.

Mara nodded. “Yes. But it didn’t really get discussed,” she said. “And I’m not trying to accuse anyone. I’m just… wondering if we have an expectation. Like, if people are using it, do we disclose it?”

Neil laughed, short and dismissive. “Why do you care?” he said, not cruelly, but with the ease of someone who assumed the group would back him.

Juniper’s eyes flicked between Mara and Ethan. She looked like she wanted to speak, but didn’t.

Ethan leaned forward. “Are you asking me?” he said, still smiling.

Mara’s heart pounded. She could feel Harriet beside her, rigid as stone.

“I’m asking the group,” Mara said. “But yes, I guess I’m asking you too. Because your work has… changed.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from someone across the circle. Mara couldn’t tell who.

Ethan’s smile tightened. “So you *are* accusing,” he said.

“No,” Mara said quickly. “I’m saying—”

“You’re implying I’m cheating,” Ethan said, his voice still calm but now edged with something hard. “Because my writing improved.”

Neil shook his head as if Mara had committed a social crime. “Come on,” he said. “People can’t get better without being suspected now?”

Mara felt the ground shifting beneath her. This was the social pressure Harriet had named: the way suspicion could be reframed as jealousy, the way raising a concern could make you the problem.

Harriet finally spoke. Her voice trembled. “It’s not about you getting better,” she said. “It’s about honesty.”

Ethan’s eyes snapped to Harriet. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you again.”

Harriet flinched.

Lyle raised both hands. “Okay,” he said quickly. “Let’s slow down. No one is accusing anyone. We’re having a conversation.”

But his tone was pleading now, not authoritative. Mara saw it: Lyle’s fear that the group was about to crack.

Neil scoffed. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “If people are using tools, so what? We all use tools. We use thesauruses. We use grammar checkers. We use critique partners. You want to ban Google next?”

Juniper finally spoke, her voice quiet but steady. “It’s not the same,” she said. “A thesaurus doesn’t write your sentence.”

Neil rolled his eyes. “You don’t know what people are doing. You don’t know where the line is.”

“That’s why we’re talking about it,” Mara said.

Ethan leaned back in his chair. “You want a rule?” he said. “Fine. Here’s a rule: don’t be a jerk.”

Mara felt heat rise in her face. “That’s not—”

“I come here,” Ethan continued, “because it’s supposed to be supportive. Because I’m trying to write. And now I’m being interrogated like I’m on trial. It’s gross.”

Harriet’s hands clenched. “No one is interrogating you,” she said, but her voice sounded small in the room.

Lyle looked at Mara, then at Harriet, then at Ethan. He looked like someone trying to hold water in his hands.

“Maybe,” Lyle said cautiously, “maybe we can agree that if someone is using AI in a significant way, they should mention it. Just for transparency.”

Ethan’s mouth curled. “So we’re doing disclosure,” he said, and the word sounded like something legal. “What counts as ‘significant’?”

Neil nodded eagerly, seizing the loophole. “Exactly,” he said. “This is why it’s stupid. You can’t define it. And if you try, you’ll just make people feel policed.”

Harriet’s shoulders sagged slightly, as if she’d been expecting this.

Mara felt despair wash through her. The conversation was turning into a trap: if you pushed for clarity, you looked controlling; if you accepted vagueness, nothing changed.

Juniper said softly, “Maybe people could just be honest without it being a rule.”

Neil snorted. “People are honest,” he said. “You’re acting like we’re all liars.”

Ethan looked at Mara. His expression had softened into something like pity. “You know what this is?” he said. “This is insecurity. You’re uncomfortable because your writing feels messy and mine doesn’t. So you want to believe I didn’t earn it.”

Mara’s throat tightened. The accusation stung because it contained a sliver of truth: Mara *was* insecure. Writing made her insecure by default. But insecurity didn’t mean she was wrong.

“I’m uncomfortable because I don’t know what we’re critiquing,” Mara said, her voice shaking now despite her efforts. “Because if someone uses AI to generate prose, and we workshop it as if it’s their craft, that changes what this group is.”

Ethan shrugged. “It’s still writing,” he said. “It’s still a story. It still needs taste. It still needs editing. You think you can just press a button and get something good? That’s not how it works.”

Mara stared at him. He sounded rehearsed. He sounded like someone who’d had this argument online and learned the talking points.

Harriet whispered, “That’s exactly what people say.”

Ethan’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

Harriet swallowed. “Nothing,” she said quickly.

Mara felt the moment slipping. She felt the group’s discomfort rising like steam, and with it the urge to seal the conversation shut. Harmony was a powerful narcotic.

Lyle cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said, his voice strained. “I think… I think we’ve aired some feelings. Maybe we can revisit this later. For now, let’s get back to the workshop. Juniper, you’re up.”

The group moved on because Lyle asked them to, because moving on was easier than staying. Pages were passed around. Juniper’s poem was read. People commented gently. The circle returned to its usual shape, but Mara felt the crack running through it.

As the meeting ended, people avoided Mara’s eyes. Not all of them, but enough that she felt the social correction: *You made this uncomfortable. You broke the spell.*

Ethan packed his bag quickly. As he stood, he leaned toward Mara, his voice low.

“Just so you know,” he said, “I don’t use AI.”

Mara looked up at him. His face was open, almost earnest.

“I work my ass off,” Ethan continued. “I write every day. I revise. I read craft books. And the fact that you’d assume otherwise… that says more about you than me.”

Mara’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She didn’t know how to respond to a statement that could be true and still not resolve anything.

Ethan straightened. “Good night,” he said, and walked out.

Harriet lingered, stuffing her notebook into her bag with trembling hands. Mara waited until most people had left before approaching her.

Harriet looked up. Her eyes were wet, but she blinked quickly, refusing the tears.

“I shouldn’t have spoken,” Harriet whispered.

Mara’s chest tightened. “Yes, you should have,” she said.

Harriet shook her head. “Look what happened,” she said. “Now I’m… the crazy one.”

Mara glanced around. Lyle was stacking chairs again, his shoulders tense. Juniper hovered near the door as if wanting to come back but not knowing how. Neil was already gone.

“We’re not crazy,” Mara said, though she didn’t entirely believe it. “We just… touched the wrong nerve.”

Harriet let out a shaky laugh that sounded like a sob. “He said he doesn’t use it,” she said.

Mara nodded slowly. “He told me the same,” she said. “But… even if he doesn’t, the question still matters.”

Harriet stared at her. “Does it?” she asked. “Or did we just ruin everything for nothing?”

Mara didn’t know. She only knew the room felt colder now, less like a circle and more like a stage.

---

For the next few weeks, the group changed in small ways that Mara couldn’t stop noticing.

People were kinder to Ethan. They praised him more effusively, as if compensating. They laughed at his jokes. They asked him about his process in admiring tones. It was the group’s way of soothing the wound Mara and Harriet had made.

People were colder to Harriet. Not overtly, not cruelly. Just… less. They gave her polite feedback. They didn’t linger to chat with her. They didn’t ask about her work outside the group. They avoided being seen as aligned with her.

Mara felt herself being tested too. Would she apologize? Would she smooth things over? Would she prove she wasn’t a threat to the group’s comfort?

She found herself doing small things to reassure people. She complimented Neil’s jokes. She thanked Lyle more than usual. She laughed at Ethan’s comments even when they weren’t funny. She hated herself for it, but she also wanted to belong.

Harriet stopped coming to the café meetups. She still attended the library meetings, but she sat quieter than before, shrinking into herself.

Juniper, once, caught Mara outside after a meeting. She had her scarf wrapped around her neck and her hands tucked into her sleeves.

“I think you were right to ask,” Juniper said softly.

Mara felt a wave of relief. “Thank you,” she said.

Juniper looked down at the pavement. “But I also think… the group can’t handle it,” she said.

Mara’s relief turned to a bitter amusement. “So what do we do?” she asked.

Juniper shrugged. “We write,” she said. “And we try not to break each other.”

Mara watched Juniper walk away, feeling that familiar loneliness again. Writing was lonely. Community was supposed to make it less so. But community, she was learning, came with its own loneliness: the loneliness of knowing what you couldn’t say.

One evening, Mara found herself scrolling online after dinner, reading thread after thread about AI writing. People argued viciously. People posted screenshots of “AI detectors” and called each other frauds. People insisted that using AI was no different than using a calculator. People insisted it was the death of art.

Mara closed her laptop, her eyes aching, and stared at the blank wall of her living room.

She thought about Ethan’s story. She thought about her own messy draft on her desk, the one she hadn’t submitted because she didn’t trust it yet.

She thought about what Harriet had said: comparing yourself to something that isn’t real.

Was that what was happening? Was the group becoming a place where reality was negotiable? Where the image of being a writer mattered more than the difficult, awkward process of writing?

Mara didn’t know. But she knew she couldn’t unsee the social pressure now. The way people downplayed suspicion to preserve comfort. The way they punished those who named it.

The next month, Mara showed up with a new story. It was rougher than she liked. It had a paragraph that didn’t work. It had dialogue that needed tightening. But it was hers, and she decided to bring it anyway as a kind of stubborn act.

When she passed it around, Ethan smiled at her. “Looking forward to it,” he said.

Mara nodded, trying to read his expression. She couldn’t tell if he was sincere or performing.

As the group read, Mara watched Harriet. Harriet held Mara’s pages carefully, as if handling something fragile. Harriet’s eyes moved slowly, taking time. When she finished, she looked up and met Mara’s gaze. For a second, there was a small, fierce understanding between them.

When the critique began, Lyle smiled and said something supportive. Neil made a joke. Ethan offered polished advice. Mara took notes. She thanked them.

The meeting ended. People stood, gathered their things, joked about the weather. The fluorescent lights hummed.

Mara lingered, watching the group reassemble itself into normalcy. She realized that the group’s downplaying wasn’t just avoidance. It was a form of control. It kept the group functioning, yes, but it also kept everyone in line. If you raised the wrong question, you would be reminded, gently or not, that comfort mattered more.

Harriet approached Mara and handed her pages back. Her fingers brushed Mara’s, and Harriet said quietly, “I liked the messy parts.”

Mara blinked. “You did?” she asked.

Harriet nodded. “They felt alive,” she said. Then she hesitated, glanced toward the door where Ethan and Neil were laughing, and added, “Alive is rare.”

Mara felt a lump rise in her throat. She wanted to hug Harriet, but she didn’t. Hugging was not something the group did. Physical affection would be another breach of the unspoken rules.

Instead, Mara said softly, “Do you want to start something else?”

Harriet frowned. “What do you mean?”

“A smaller group,” Mara said. “Just a few of us. People who want to talk honestly about process. Who… don’t mind discomfort.”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “That would be… splitting the group,” she whispered.

Mara nodded. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe it’s just… making a space where we can breathe.”

Harriet looked torn. She glanced toward Lyle, toward Juniper, toward the empty chairs. “Lyle would be hurt,” she said.

“I know,” Mara replied. “But Lyle is already hurt,” she added, though she didn’t say it aloud. Hurt by the tension he couldn’t manage. Hurt by the reality he refused to name.

Harriet looked back at Mara. “Who would come?” she asked.

Mara thought of Juniper’s quiet courage. She thought of one or two others who had looked uncomfortable during the AI conversation but had stayed silent. She thought of the possibility of something smaller and truer.

“Juniper,” Mara said. “Maybe Tanya. Maybe… even Lyle, if he wanted to.”

Harriet gave a small, uncertain laugh. “Lyle likes rules,” she said.

“So do I,” Mara said. “But I like the right rules.”

Harriet looked at Mara for a long moment. Then she nodded once, decisively, as if she were stepping over a line.

“Okay,” Harriet said. “Let’s do it.”

Mara felt something loosen inside her chest. Not a solution, not peace, but a small permission: permission to stop pretending.

They exchanged details quickly, quiet as conspirators. A different library room. A different night. A smaller circle.

As they walked out together, Mara noticed that Juniper was still by the door, lingering as if unsure where to go. Juniper saw Mara and Harriet, and something in her expression shifted. She stepped closer.

“You’re leaving?” Juniper asked, her voice careful.

Mara hesitated. She felt the familiar pressure: don’t make this awkward, don’t fracture the group, don’t become the villain.

But she also felt Harriet beside her, steady now.

“We’re… starting something smaller,” Mara said honestly. “A process-focused thing.”

Juniper’s eyes searched Mara’s face. “Because of…?” she began.

Mara didn’t want to say “AI” in the library hallway where other patrons could hear. But Juniper seemed to understand anyway.

Juniper looked down, then back up. “Can I come?” she asked, and there was a quiet urgency in her voice.

Mara felt a rush of warmth. “Yes,” she said. “Please.”

Juniper exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath for weeks. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

They walked out into the cold together, three figures stepping away from the bright, humming room where politeness had been the price of belonging.

In the parking lot, Lyle waved at them from across the way, cheerful, unaware. Ethan’s laughter echoed as he climbed into his car.

Mara raised her hand and waved back, because she wasn’t trying to punish anyone. She wasn’t trying to win. She was simply trying to find a place where the work could be what it was: messy, difficult, human.

As she drove home, Mara thought about the group they were leaving behind. She thought about how people would talk. She imagined the narrative forming: Mara and Harriet couldn’t handle it. Mara was jealous. Harriet was paranoid. Juniper was sensitive. The story would be tidy, because tidy stories were comforting.

But Mara also thought about her own drafts, the ones with rough edges and awkward lines and moments that didn’t quite land. She thought about the way those drafts felt like her, in a way no polished paragraph ever could.

At a red light, Mara glanced at her passenger seat, where her folder lay slightly open, pages peeking out like something restless. She imagined a future where writing groups had to decide what they were: places for products, or places for people. Places for performance, or places for process.

She didn’t know which future would win. She didn’t know what Ethan truly did or didn’t do. She didn’t know how many people in the world were quietly outsourcing their sentences and still calling it their voice.

What she did know was this: suspicion thrived in silence, and silence was not the same thing as kindness.

The light turned green. Mara drove on, carrying her messy pages into the night, toward a smaller circle where discomfort might be allowed to exist, and where the pressure to downplay might finally lift, at least for a few hours at a time.

And somewhere beneath all the fear and awkwardness and fragile alliances, Mara felt something that had been missing in the fluorescent room: a flicker of honest anticipation.

Not for applause. Not for perfection.

For the work itself.