She baked before dawn.
The kitchen was so quiet she could feel her own breath. Even the oven sounded alive, the soft metal shifting making her both comforted and achingly alone. Outside, the city slumbered on. No sirens or horns, just that distant rush—huge and indifferent, making her feel small but peaceful.
Butter softened on the counter, pale and patient. She pressed her finger into it to check, then pulled back. She added sugar, mixing it in with a wooden spoon she’d had for years. The bowl rocked gently with each stir. She cracked the eggs one at a time, tapping them and checking the shells before tossing them. She took her time and didn’t waste anything.
The batter thickened just as it should. She stopped for a moment to listen, then poured it into the pan and smoothed the top with her spoon. The oven took it in quietly.
While the cake baked, she wiped the counter with hands that needed something to do. Twice—first to tidy, then to soothe her nerves. She washed the bowl with deliberate care, letting the habit steady her. She didn’t sit down. She leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyes heavy with relief and anticipation, holding the warmth like a shield against everything waiting outside.
The cake rose evenly. A small split formed down the center, hinting at the softness inside.
She didn’t frost it.
Once it cooled, she wrapped it carefully, the paper making a soft sound under her fingers. She didn’t cut it at home, but waited until she was at the studio, letting the day decide its purpose.
The studio smelled different by midmorning.
There was coffee, but now also a faint, unexpected scent of sugar, weaving through the metal, dust, and electricity. Celeste put the box on the back table, away from cables and cords—far enough not to be kicked, but close enough to be seen. She left no note or explanation. She cut the cake into small, even slices with clean edges, and slid a plate under the first piece so it wouldn’t bend.
Nao noticed first.
He always did.
“Is it someone’s birthday?” he asked, already reaching for a plate.
“No,” she said.
He nodded, satisfied. Took a slice. Bit in.
“Oh,” he said, mouth full. “This is good.”
“She’ll stop bringing things if you’re too enthusiastic,” Leo said.
Nao grinned. “Worth the risk.”
Brett came next, moving slowly. He looked at the cake, as if hoping it would show its purpose if he watched it long enough.
“Did we survive something?” he asked.
“Yes,” Nao said. “Morning.”
Brett snorted, took a slice, then grabbed another and wrapped it in a napkin.
Peter waited until there were fewer people around. He took a plate, nodded once at Celeste, his gaze sincere but avoiding meeting her eyes too long. “Thank you,” he said quietly, already stepping away with a reserved air.
Leo hovered.
He adjusted his camera strap, glanced at the cake, then at her. “Can I?”
She slid a plate toward him. “It’s cake.”
He smiled, relieved. “Right. Good.”
Paul came last.
He always waited when it came to things he didn’t trust.
He stopped short when he saw the table. He looked at the cake, then at her, his brow furrowed as though weighing a decision. Looked back at the cake again, as if checking for movement or hidden meaning.
“Well,” he said. “Let me guess.”
She kept her hands busy, straightening napkins already neat, trying to mask the twist of anxiety tightening in her stomach.
“Communion?”
She didn’t look up. “It’s cake.”
“For what?” he asked. “Redemption? A miracle? Or is it a holy day?”
The room grew quiet without anyone meaning it to. Someone cleared their throat. Someone else pretended to tune an instrument.
She set a fork beside the plate. The metal made a small, precise sound.
“Yes,” she said.
Paul laughed, sharp and quick. “Of course it is. Goth Nun’s got a calendar.”
Nao coughed into his hand, momentarily hiding a grin. Brett shifted in his seat, his chair legs scraping softly as if to fill the silence. Peter stared intently at his phone, jaw set a little tighter than usual.
Paul picked up a slice anyway. He looked it over, turning the plate a little, as if he expected to find a symbol in the cake.
“So,” he said. “What saint is this? Patron of passive aggression?”
She met his eyes—long enough to hold his gaze, but not long enough to invite anything more.
“Mary Magdalene,” she said.
He blinked. Just once. “The prostitute?”
The word hit, sharp and ugly. The room went quiet; shoulders tensed, and eyes darted away, giving the impact a physical weight.
She didn’t flinch.
“The witness,” she said, and turned away.
Paul stared at her back for half a beat too long, his mouth tightening in thought. Then he took a bite, chewed, and let his posture soften, as if conceding something.
“Tastes expensive,” he said, voice lower. “You bake like you’re buying forgiveness.”
She walked across the room and erased a time on the board. Noon became eleven-thirty. The marker squeaked once, then stopped. She wrote the new time. The band adjusted without saying anything, moving their instruments and shifting around as if they’d planned it themselves.
“Hey,” Nao said, glancing at the board. “We’re early.”
“Yes,” Celeste said.
“Cool,” he replied. “I like early.”
The break ended. Only crumbs and clean plates were left. Leo licked his fork and looked a little guilty. Brett wrapped up the last piece and put it in his bag. Paul scraped his plate clean, making a point of it, then left it on the table instead of taking it to the sink.
Celeste wiped the table anyway. She folded the box flat, put it in her bag, and threw the napkins away.
Her phone vibrated once.
She didn’t reach for it immediately.
She waited until the amps started humming again and the room was full of sound, so she could slip out unnoticed. Then she opened the message.
I thought of her today.
The way she stays.
Not at the center. Not rewarded.
Just present.
There’s courage in that kind of fidelity.
She read the message with her back against the wall, feeling the music vibrate through her shoulders. The room sounded far away, almost like she was underwater. She closed the message and put her phone away.
Paul’s voice cut through the music.
“Hey,” he called. “You get a thank-you note from God, or what?”
She put the kettle on and poured water. Steam rose, briefly fogging her glasses before it cleared.
“It’s for everyone,” she said, nodding once toward the empty plate.
He watched her a moment longer, the line between skepticism and understanding flickering in his expression.
He started to say something, then stopped. He took a sip of tea and burned his tongue a little.
“Shit.”
Nao laughed. “Careful,” he said. “Holy beverages.”
The day moved on.
Rehearsal got more focused. The sound settled in. Arguments started and faded quickly. Celeste kept moving, handing out water, fixing cables, and calling out the time. Behind her eyes, a gentle pressure grew—familiar as regret, present as an ache she wouldn’t let surface.
By evening, the studio grew dim. She finished her last task, labeled the folders for tomorrow, and turned off the lights in the order she knew mattered. The kettle cooled. The room seemed to let out a breath.
As she left, a faint smell of sugar clung to her coat.
She carried it home, like something she hadn’t planned to give away but did anyway.
Repressed Feelings 