Elliot never planned to join any club, let alone one that revolved around poetry and prose. But when his childhood best friend, Naomi, cornered him after class with that familiar glint in her eye and a clipboard in hand, resistance was futile. She was the vice president of the Hollowridge High Literature Club, and apparently, they were “desperately short on members.” Elliot signed up, mostly to avoid her relentless persuasion, and found himself in a cozy classroom with three other girls: Iris, the aloof poet; June, the bubbly romance writer; and Celeste, the quiet girl who only wrote horror.
At first, it was awkward. Elliot didn’t write much—he preferred sketching in the margins of his notebooks. But Naomi made it fun, assigning quirky prompts and hosting dramatic readings that turned even the shyest members into performers. For a while, the club felt like a secret haven. But cracks began to show. Iris stopped coming after a heated debate over plagiarism. June grew distant, distracted by college applications and a new boyfriend. Celeste, after sharing a deeply personal story that was met with uncomfortable silence, never returned. Naomi tried to hold it together, but even her enthusiasm couldn’t mask the emptiness of the room.
By spring, it was just Elliot and Naomi. They sat in the same classroom, surrounded by abandoned notebooks and fading posters. Naomi confessed she felt like she’d failed. But Elliot, now scribbling short stories of his own, reminded her that the club had mattered—even if only for a moment. They kept meeting, not for the club, but for each other. And in the quiet echo of what once was, they found something more enduring than any poem: a shared story still being written.