Celeste arrived before the city finished waking.
The sidewalk outside the studio was cold from last night. Water pooled in shallow spots, reflecting the sky until scattered by passing cars. Salt pressed in by weeks of boots and tires turned the seams white. She paused at the door, hand resting on it, letting the inside sounds settle in her chest before entering.
She already felt pressure behind her eyes. It had greeted her on waking—a gentle, steady reminder she ignored. Lately, she treated it the way she treated most things: not as a warning, just something that happened, like the weather.
Inside, sounds slipped through the walls. Drums repeated an unfinished phrase. A guitar stumbled, restarting. Laughter rang out sharply, then stopped, as if someone remembered to be quiet.
The hallway smelled like old coffee and warm cables. Posters covered the walls—some in frames, others just taped at the corners, curling in as if they were tired. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, flickered once, then settled into a steady glare.
She followed the signs toward management.
Mark Foster’s office was at the end of the hall, set apart more by distance than by design. The door was open. Warm light spread across the floor, a small comfort compared to the harsh lights behind her. She knocked once—quiet, but clear enough to be heard.
Mark looked up right away, eyes dull with exhaustion. Already standing, jacket half on, he left his phone facedown on the desk as if unable to face more demands. There was a heaviness in his posture, the kind that no sleep could fix.
“Celeste,” he said, offering his hand. His grip was brief, practical. No testing. No linger. “Thanks for coming in early.”
She nodded, her movements careful. When he gestured, she sat, folding her hands in her lap. Her fingers were still, but her shoulders remained tense.
His desk was buried in papers. Calendars stacked with color-coded tabs marked changing dates. A tablet buzzed, then fell silent. Coffee, left too long, congealed on top.
“We’re swamped,” Mark said. No preamble. No apology. He rubbed his temple, then pushed a schedule toward her. “Miami. Tomorrowland Winter. Coachella was on the horizon. Montreux, Fuji. Everything’s overlapping. Everyone’s stretched.”
He didn’t try to make the job sound better. He just described how heavy it was.
“We need extra hands,” he continued. “Someone steady. Discreet. Someone who doesn’t panic when things move.”
She glanced over the page. Names, dates, and arrows led nowhere good. Red lines crossed out what had once been certain.
“There’s one clause,” Mark said, watching her now. “Non-negotiable.”
She looked up.
“Sunday mornings,” he said. “You attend Mass. Before work. That time is yours. Everything else belongs to the band.”
She hesitated, the words catching somewhere between her chest and her mouth. There was a small tightening of her jaw before she finally let the silence speak for her.
“That’s fine,” she said.
Her answer was steady, almost too calm. Mark let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders sinking as if he’d put down something heavy. He opened a desk drawer and, with a faint, grateful nod, slid a badge across to her.
“Let me introduce you.”
The rehearsal room felt like a breath finally let out.
Sound filled the room as she entered. The band spread out, at ease with each other. Nao sat on an amp, tapping his knees, laughter always close. Leo leaned against the wall, camera on his wrist, watching the light move. Brett tuned his instrument precisely, head down. Peter sat with his bass, listening and watching more than playing.
And Paul.
He stood in the center of the room, holding the mic cord tightly in his hand. His sandy hair was pushed back, and his sharp blue eyes looked at her openly. He watched her the way people do when they are used to being watched themselves.
“This is Celeste,” Mark said. “She’s joining us. Assistant.”
Nao smiled immediately, wide and warm. “Hey. Welcome.”
Nao smiled at her instantly, warmth reaching his eyes. Leo offered a nod, sincere but reserved. Brett looked her up and down, suspicion flickering before his features relaxed in quiet approval. Peter nodded politely, eyes steady, keeping his distance.
Paul laughed.
His laugh was quiet. It didn’t have to be loud.
“Is that the uniform?” he asked, eyes flicking over her black dress, the lace at her sleeves, the veil folded neatly in her bag. “Are we doing funerals now?”
Celeste didn’t answer.
Mark stepped in, already moving. “Paul—”
“It’s fine,” Paul said, cutting him off with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m just trying to place her. You look like a… what do you call it?”
He tilted his head and thought for a moment. “A Goth Nun.”
His words fell quietly in the room.
Nao’s grin slipped ever so slightly. Brett’s hand stilled on the tuning peg, knuckles whitening. Leo’s eyes dropped to the floor, his shoulders tensing. Peter just sat, gaze darkening.
Celeste met Paul’s look with a practiced calm. She blinked once, unfazed, face unreadable. Setting her bag down purposefully, her hands steady, she gave no reaction—the kind of silence that holds something back.
“If you need anything,” Mark said, louder now, redirecting the room, “Celeste will handle it. Schedules. Logistics. She’ll be your point.”
Paul’s grin sharpened. “Lucky us.”
Mark clapped his hands once. “All right. Back to it.”
Celeste moved to the side. She watched, not hovering. She saw Nao lift the mood, Brett stand quietly between Paul and the door, Leo watch Paul more than his instrument, and Peter keep the music steady without drawing attention.
Paul tried her again, tossing a comment over his shoulder, sharp but casual.
“Careful,” he said. “She might pray us into better time signatures.”
She said nothing.
The morning passed in fragments. Sounds layered. Arguments began and ended quickly. She found where to stand, who needed space, and who needed support. She made tea, set mugs within reach, and updated the whiteboard. The room changed around her without notice.
Paul noticed.
He stayed quiet, watching her longer than he intended.
Outside, the city finally woke. Horns sounded. Footsteps multiplied. Somewhere, a siren rose and fell.
Inside, Celeste began creating something that no one had yet named.
Repressed Feelings 