The shrill beep of her alarm broke the quiet hum of the morning.
Celeste groaned dramatically.
She rolled over, buried her face in her pillow, and mumbled something about capitalism and suffering before throwing the blanket off like it personally offended her.
Stretch.
A long one.
Arms up. Fingers spread. Toes curled. Spine popping like old bubble wrap.
She stood, staggered toward the bathroom like a zombie, grabbed her cup, and—
Gurgle gurgle
Mouthwash. Minty vengeance. Swished with the energy of someone fighting for her life.
She spat it out, stared at her reflection with squinted eyes, and pointed at herself.
"Pretend to be sane. You've done it before."
Next up—shower.
Hot. Scalding. Steam-filled. She tilted her head back under the spray and let the water wash away everything she refused to think about. Like feelings. Like a certain someone. Like the memory of a kiss that wasn't hers to see.
After she towel-dried her hair and stepped into her room, she paused.
Her brother's door was wide open. No noise. No Rowan.
She peeked inside. Empty bed. Unmade sheets. A lone sock hanging from the headboard like a battle flag.
"…Suspicious."
Still, no time to overthink.
She put on her clothes—a loose crop hoodie and black pants, sleek but casual—and stared into her closet for five full seconds like it was about to judge her.
Then:
Breakfast—or something pretending to be breakfast.
Her stomach grumbled.
She headed into the kitchen with half a plan to toast something. She passed by the fridge—and paused.
It was stupid.
But for half a second, she imagined him there again.
Leaning on the counter. Half-asleep. Mug in hand. That awkward smile he always gave her when she caught him off guard.
She scrolled through her phone with half-lidded eyes.
Nothing from him.
Of course not.
She pressed her lips together and grabbed a slice of bread, chewing on the corner without even bothering to toast it.
Whatever. She was fine.
She brushed her teeth, almost too aggressively, then grabbed her makeup pouch.
Concealer, eyeliner, blush. A little mascara. Lip gloss with just the right amount of shine. She tilted her head, gave herself a wink.
Finally—perfume.
Two spritzes.
One behind the ear. One at the wrist. Sweet, floral, deadly.
"Alright," she exhaled.
Then grabbed her bag and headed out.
———
The classroom was already buzzing with early chatter, iced coffees, and the quiet panic of students pretending to be prepared.
Celeste strolled in, smiling, waving, giving finger guns like she was in a sitcom intro.
Inside? Brain static. Outside? Vibes.
She flopped into her seat beside Lyka with a dramatic sigh.
"You look energetic," Lyka said, raising a brow. "How much sugar did you inhale?"
Celeste leaned back in her chair. "Two iced mochas, one cinnamon roll, and three hours of toxic optimism."
Lyka blinked. "Girl, are you… okay?"
Celeste grinned. "I'm fine. Just fighting demons and Statistics. Normal day."
Before Lyka could respond, Celeste slammed her face into her desk. Not out of despair—just sheer performance.
WHUMP.
Several students turned.
Celeste's muffled voice: "I am one with the table. The table is with me."
Lyka burst out laughing. "You're insane."
"Nope. Just coping."
A beat later, the professor walked in.
Celeste immediately sat up straight, flipped her notes open like a studious queen, and whispered, "Activate student mode."
———