What Time Is It?

The circle was tight, the chairs arranged in that familiar, intimate way that invited openness, vulnerability, and connection. The hum of conversation was soft, a gentle lull filling the room. People who had been strangers just weeks ago now shared something deeper than surface-level pleasantries: they shared their truths, their struggles, their days in and out of recovery.

It was Wednesday night, the usual meeting time for the AA group, and like every week, the room was filled with a mix of fresh faces and old-timers. Among them was Clara, a woman who had been coming to these meetings for a while now, always silent, always avoiding the spotlight. Her arms were crossed, her face unreadable, and her gaze fixed on the floor. She wasn’t one to speak up. She had been coming to these meetings for months, sitting on the periphery, observing, listening, but never contributing. She had heard stories of struggle and triumph, of failure and redemption, but she had never once felt brave enough to share her own.

Clara was used to blending in, used to the anonymity that the meetings promised. She had her own demons to wrestle with—addiction, yes, but there was something more, something deeper she was hiding, a truth she couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge. She felt safe here, safe behind the walls she had built, safe in her silence. She could hide behind her withdrawal, behind her avoidance. No one needed to know what she carried.

But tonight felt different. The air was thick with something she couldn’t quite place, an undercurrent of anticipation that made her heart race. It was as if the room was holding its breath, waiting for something to shift. She felt it too, the weight of something unsaid, a tension in the space that seemed to be pulling at her.

Then, as the meeting settled into its usual rhythm, a voice broke through the stillness.

“I just noticed you,” Bob said, his voice cutting through the soft murmur of the group. Clara’s head snapped up, and she met his gaze for the first time that night. Bob was a regular, an older man with thick glasses and a gravelly voice. He had a way of observing people with an intensity that sometimes made Clara uncomfortable. Tonight, he was staring at her with a kind of quiet intensity that made her feel exposed, as if he had peeled back a layer of her she wasn’t ready to reveal.

“You’re always sitting there, on the edge of the circle,” he continued, his finger now pointing directly at her. “Never engaging. I’m curious, Clara. How come you’re always so distant? You don’t talk, you don’t share. You just sit there, watching, like you’re waiting for something.”

Clara’s breath caught in her throat. The words hung in the air, and for a moment, she thought she could escape, slip away into the corner of the room where no one would look at her. But she couldn’t move. Her body was rooted to the chair, her arms still tightly crossed over her chest. The room was silent now, the conversation stilled, everyone’s attention fixed on her.

She felt the heat rising in her face, the familiar flush of embarrassment and discomfort. She could feel the gaze of every person in the circle on her, weighing her down, pressing on her. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to explain herself without exposing the raw, vulnerable parts of her that she wasn’t ready to face.

The silence stretched on. For what felt like an eternity, no one spoke. It was as if the room was holding its collective breath, waiting for her to break, waiting for her to say something—anything—that would release the tension.

Finally, it was Karen who spoke, her voice gentle but firm. “I sense that there’s a bubble here,” she said, her eyes steady on Clara. “One that’s not ready to be popped.”

Clara’s heart skipped a beat. The words felt like a sharp slap in the face, though they were not unkind. Karen’s expression was soft, but Clara could see the recognition in her eyes. She knew something was there—something Clara had been hiding. But Clara wasn’t ready to face it. Not now. Not here. Not with these people who had no idea what she was really struggling with.

“I think she’s right,” Steve said, his voice quieter, almost cautious. “There’s something that’s been sitting here for a while, something unspoken. Clara, is there something you want to share? Something you’ve been holding in?”

Clara’s pulse quickened, her chest tightening with a mixture of panic and dread. She could feel the weight of the group’s gaze pressing on her, their curiosity turning into something more insistent, more demanding. It was as if they wanted her to confess, to spill her secrets in front of them. But what if they didn’t accept her? What if they saw her as less than, as broken? What if she was too much for them to handle?

She shifted in her seat, her hands trembling in her lap. The words were there, right on the tip of her tongue, but they felt like they would burn her if she spoke them. And still, they pressed, their questions hanging in the air like an accusation.

“I think there’s something we’re all waiting for,” Laura said, her voice steady, almost coaxing. “Clara, we’re not here to judge you. We just want to understand. You’ve been so quiet, so closed off. What’s going on with you?”

The room fell silent again, but this time, Clara could feel the weight of their curiosity. It wasn’t judgment, not exactly. But it felt like a pressure she couldn’t escape. She was being drawn into something she wasn’t ready for, a space that didn’t feel safe anymore. And then, there it was—the thing she had feared, the thing that had been bubbling under the surface for so long. It was time. Time to face the truth.

Clara closed her eyes, her breath shallow. And in the quiet that enveloped the room, she spoke.

“I’m gay,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

The room froze.

For a long moment, no one spoke. Clara’s words seemed to hang in the air, reverberating in her chest like a drumbeat. She opened her eyes, but she couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. She was too exposed, too vulnerable. The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then, Karen spoke again, her voice low but firm. “Clara, I feel like there’s rage here. Like something’s about to spill over. But that space... it wasn’t held for you. I see it now. I’m sorry. I didn’t see the bubble before. I see it now, and I should have noticed sooner.”

Clara’s chest tightened. She had wanted to say so much more, wanted to explain that it wasn’t just the addiction that had been the problem, that it was the fear of rejection, of being othered, of being seen as less than. She had wanted to say that the silence, the avoidance, wasn’t just about her addiction—it was about hiding from a truth she hadn’t been ready to confront.

But all she could do was sit there, trembling, as the words and the space she needed finally settled in.

"What time is it?" someone asked suddenly, breaking the intensity of the moment.

Clara’s gaze lifted, her eyes blurry, not entirely sure what was happening, but knowing it was the beginning of something she couldn’t walk away from anymore. It wasn’t just about recovery now—it was about acceptance, about being seen, about facing the parts of herself she had hidden for so long. And she wasn’t sure where this path would lead, but she knew it was time to walk it.