The cake was gone by morning.
There weren’t even crumbs left. A faint sweetness lingered near the back table. It faded under the smell of coffee, cables, and the metallic tang of warmed equipment. Celeste arrived early enough to notice it disappear. The scent blended with the room’s usual smells. Soon, it was gone.
She opened the windows an inch.
Cold air came in, clean and sharp, moving through the room. The city seemed to breathe with her. Below, a truck idled. Then it drove away. The window rattled once, then was still.
She set out mugs. Counted them. Recounted them. She set out one extra mug. Paused. Put it back in the cabinet. She turned the handle in, matching the others. Next, she turned on the kettle and waited, without hurrying.
She left her coat on the back of the chair and put her bag under the desk. She smoothed the arrival sheet with her hand and marked the time with a neat stroke.
Paul came in loudly.
The door swung open—loud. He threw his jacket at a chair that wasn’t his. Missed. Left it hanging halfway to the floor.
“Morning, Saint Baker,” he said, already grinning. “No miracles today?”
She kept her eyes on the page. Marked a name. Drew a line through another.
“Shame. Yesterday had a mood—like a crypt. Candles, guilt.”
Nao laughed quietly, a quick, bright sound edged with nerves. The laugh faded when Paul kept going, leaving a silence that pressed between them.
“Maybe tomorrow you can bring wafers,” Paul went on. “We can confess between takes.”
Celeste walked over and fixed a mic stand that was leaning a little too much. The metal made a soft sound as she adjusted it. She tested it twice. It stayed in place.
Paul followed her movement with his voice. “You know what I like? You never clap back. It’s like talking to a wall. A judgmental wall.”
She stopped at the whiteboard, erased a name, and wrote another below it. The order changed. No one said anything. Leo looked up. Adjusted his tuning. Stayed quiet. Brett nodded, looking pleased.
“Goth Nun! Ever do anything but church or chores?”
She capped the marker. The click was precise.
“Yes,” she said.
Paul smiled, delighted. “Really? When?”
She pointed to the clock. “Now.”
Brett cleared his throat. “Paul.”
Paul raised a hand. “I’m inspired.”
Rehearsal began. Stopped. Began again.
Paul stopped in the middle of a line and blamed the monitors. He stopped again and blamed the room. He shook his head, laughed, and ran a hand through his hair as if the answer might come to him.
Every time Celeste moved, he made a comment. Small and constant. Always there but never loud enough to be real noise.
“Careful with that cord.”
“Write it down, Goth Nun.”
“Put it on the calendar. Make it holy.”
She kept moving.
She handed out water without being asked. She moved a break by five minutes, stopping an argument before it started. When Paul’s pacing quickened, she stepped between him and the door, not blocking him but altering his path so he slowed without realizing it.
Nao leaned toward Leo at one point. “Is it just me,” he murmured, “or is she doing wizard math?”
Leo smiled without looking up. “Don’t say it out loud.”
At lunch, separate from rehearsal, Celeste ate standing.
She ate half a sandwich, folded neatly. She took careful bites so nothing dropped. One hand stayed free to answer emails between bites. The other held the paper steady.
Paul watched.
“Ascetic too,” he said. “Impressive range.”
She finished eating, threw away the paper, washed her hands, and dried them carefully.
Her phone vibrated once in her bag.
She didn’t reach for it.
Paul noticed anyway.
“Don’t stop on my account. Secret pen pal waiting?”
The word slipped in casually, like an accident.
Her shoulders tensed for a moment, and for an instant her jaw tightened, but then she let out a slow breath and relaxed. She kept looking at the sink, fingers pressing harder against the countertop.
“I’m working,” she said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “You always are.”
The afternoon dragged. Time slowed. The room felt heavier, with sound pressing against the walls.
The room felt heavier, with sound pressing against the walls. Celeste shortened the last block, ended early, and moved a call up to save everyone an extra hour of tension. Mark looked at the board, nodded, and said nothing.
As people packed up, cases closing and straps tightening, Paul lingered.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her lock the supply cabinet.
“Some hide in silence because they’ve got something to hide.”
She looked him in the eye, just long enough to be clear, her jaw set and knuckles white on the keys, but not long enough to invite more.
“I don’t,” she said.
He laughed, sharp. “Sure.”
Once rehearsal ended and outside, the air was colder than the day before, tightening around her shoulders. She walked the long way home, keeping her steps steady and counting her breaths, each inhale sharp in the cold. The pressure behind her eyes felt stronger now, like a wave threatening to crest, but she was used to sinking beneath it. She stopped on the bridge, resting her trembling hands on the rail, watching the city move below her, her heart thudding loud against the hush of evening traffic.
Later, at home, she set her bag down. Took off her coat. Sat at the table before turning on any lights.
Only then did she open her phone.
I hope yesterday was gentle.
Even when it isn’t received, offering still counts.
Some things are faithful simply because they are done.
She read it once. She didn’t reply, then set the phone face down.
In the dark, the day slowly let go, little by little.
Tomorrow was already waiting.
Repressed Feelings 