Ms. Deloera

𝓔ssay 4

Light poured through the sheer curtains, warm and lazy, as if even the sun had a hangover.

It filtered into the room in pale bands, dust floating through it slowly, unbothered by time.

My eyes blinked open in stages, vision hazy, head heavy, mouth dry.

My body felt sluggish, like it had not fully agreed to wake up yet.

I lay there longer than necessary, staring at the ceiling, letting my thoughts drift without trying to organize them. Mornings were always like this for me. My body woke up before my mind did, and my mind took its time deciding what it wanted to feel.

I noticed the way my chest rose and fell, a little heavier than usual. The faint ache behind my eyes. The dryness in my mouth. All small things, but together they made me aware of myself in a way I usually tried to avoid.

I thought about how strange it was that one night could leave such a residue. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like something had shifted slightly out of place, not enough to break anything, but enough that I could not ignore it.

I did not feel overwhelmed. I felt alert.

That was new.

Usually, I woke up already resigned to the shape of the day. Classes. Work. The café. The same faces, the same expectations. Today, there was a quiet anticipation humming beneath my thoughts, and I did not know where it came from.

The room was quiet in that soft morning way, the kind that only existed after a late night. The faint smell of citrus shampoo and something sweet, Jade's perfume, lingered beside me, clinging to the pillows and sheets.

She was still asleep, half-sprawled across the bed like a starfish, her cheek pressed into the pillow.

One arm was thrown above her head, the other curled loosely near her face.

Her breathing was slow and even, hair a wild mess of curls across the sheets.

She looked peaceful, unguarded, completely unaware of the way the world waited for her to wake up.

For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting everything from last night replay in fragments.

The bar.

The pulse of music vibrating through my chest.

The heat of the crowd pressed too close.

Jade grabbing my wrist and pulling me onto the dance floor.

The taste of something sweet and sharp on my tongue.

The Uber that took forever, my phone slipping lower and lower in battery.

And then her.

Celeste.

The thought settled into my chest before I could stop it, quiet but heavy, like something placed carefully and left there on purpose. I turned onto my side slowly and reached for my phone, careful not to wake Jade.

The screen glowed too brightly in the dim room, making me squint. The time blinked back at me, later than I expected. My messages loaded instantly.

Her number was still there.

I had typed it in myself last night, sitting on the edge of my bed with shaking fingers, copying it from the cigarette filter she had handed me.

I remembered hesitating when it came time to save it.

Remembered staring at the empty name field longer than necessary, my thumb hovering as if the choice mattered more than it should have.

In the end, I had typed just one word.

Celeste.

No last name. No title. Just her.

I opened the thread.

Me: I'm home safe.

Her reply sat beneath it, unchanged.

Celeste: I'm glad. Have a great day, Ivy.

That was all. No question. No softness that invited more. No opening for conversation.

And yet I had reread it more times than I wanted to admit.

There was something about the way she used my name, about how deliberate it felt, that made my stomach flutter anyway. Like she had chosen it carefully. Like nothing she did was accidental.

I locked my phone and stared at the ceiling again, exhaling slowly.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more.

Curiosity crept in quietly, the way it always did, patient and insistent.

I unlocked my phone again and typed her name into the search bar.

Celeste Deloera.

The results filled the screen immediately.

Articles. Interviews. Panels. Fashion editorials.

Profiles from publications I recognized and others I did not.

Her face appeared again and again, always composed, always controlled.

She looked untouchable in a way that felt intentional, like she understood exactly how to exist in public without letting anyone too close.

And then there were photos from last night.

Paparazzi.

My breath caught.

One image showed her standing outside Solara, arms wrapped around a woman with ginger hair.

The photo was taken from far away, grainy, like whoever captured it knew better than to get close.

The woman's face was turned away, hidden against Celeste's shoulder.

Their bodies were pressed together in a way that felt intimate without being dramatic.

The caption read:

Editor in chief Celeste Deloera with mysterious woman hugging in front of the famous bar Solara.

My chest tightened.

Mysterious woman.

I scrolled.

There were photos of us too.

Not touching. Just standing too close. Talking. Her head tilted slightly toward mine. My face turned up toward her, attentive in a way I had not realized at the time.

"Oh my god," I whispered.

From the outside, it looked different. Charged. Like something was happening even if nothing had happened at all. Like proximity alone meant something.

It felt strange, seeing myself like that. Flattened into context. Turned into implication. I wondered how many strangers were already forming opinions about me without knowing my name.

I wondered if she had seen them yet.

"Ugh," Jade groaned beside me, pulling the blanket over her head. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten," I murmured, still staring at the screen.

She peeked out at me through messy lashes. "You are already on your phone. Please do not tell me it is her."

I turned the screen toward her.

She sat up a little, squinting. "Mysterious woman?" Her eyes widened. "Oh my god. We are in these too. I barely remember last night. I only remember her telling you to text her. So did you?"

"She replied," I said, showing her the message.

She read it once. Then again. Then looked at me like I had just confessed something illegal.

"No way. No. Way. That woman is something else."

"She just made sure I got home safe," I said, though my voice came out softer than I meant it to.

"She gave you her number, Ivy. Professors do not just do that. That is not allowed, right?"

"I do not know." I locked my phone and set it aside. "It is probably nothing."

Jade flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, still smiling. "Totally nothing. Just casual safety texting from your professor who you accidentally baptized with espresso."

"Baptized with espresso?" I laughed, the sound easing something tight in my chest.

"Get up," she said suddenly. "We are going to brunch."

Getting ready together felt oddly ceremonial, even though we were doing nothing special.

The bathroom was warm from the shower, the mirror slightly fogged around the edges.

Jade stood close enough that our elbows brushed occasionally, and I noticed how naturally we adjusted around each other without thinking about it.

She talked while she did her makeup, filling the space easily, but I caught myself watching the way she paused when applying eyeliner, the way her hand steadied itself against the counter. People always revealed something about themselves in moments like that, when they needed precision.

When she turned to look at me, I noticed how her expression softened, just slightly. Not concern. Recognition.

I wondered what she saw when she looked at me.

As I pulled on my skirt, I studied myself in the mirror longer than usual. The pink fabric caught the light in a way that felt almost playful. I was not used to dressing for myself anymore. Most days, my clothes were practical. Forgettable. Today, I felt seen by my own reflection.

That unsettled me more than I expected.

I noticed how Jade smiled when she saw my outfit, how she did not say anything right away. Just nodded once, approvingly. Jade always reacted first with her face before her mouth, and I had learned to read her that way.

I thought about how rare it was to have someone who knew you well enough not to rush you.

"You look happy," Jade said, meeting my eyes in the mirror.

"I feel different," I admitted.

She stepped behind me and adjusted a loose strand of my hair. "Good."

We shared lip gloss. Fixed each other's makeup. Talked about nothing and everything. There was comfort in the routine, in the closeness, in the way she knew me well enough not to push too hard.

When we finally left, sunlight spilling into the hallway, I already felt lighter.

Brunch was at our usual café, the one with marble tables and wide open windows that let the city spill inside. It was crowded and loud, full of people wearing sunglasses indoors and laughing too loudly.

We ordered cappuccinos and light salads, something green and crisp. I wrapped my hands around my cup, letting the warmth ground me.

While we talked, I found myself watching the people around us more than usual. The way someone laughed too loudly at a joke that was not funny. The way another person checked their phone every few seconds, even while speaking. Small tells. Nervous habits. Comfort.

I noticed how Jade leaned forward when she was serious and leaned back when she was joking. How she always made eye contact when she wanted to be understood.

But my mind keeps drifting to something else. Change. I realized that wanting change did not have to sound dramatic. It could sound calm. Certain.

That realization settled into me quietly.

"You have been quiet," Jade said.

"I have been thinking."

"About her."

"About everything," I said. "I am tired of staying in places that make me feel small."

"The café," she said.

"Yes. I hate the way people look at me there. Like I am invisible unless I mess up."

"You deserve better," she said simply.

Jade looked at her phone but I could see her slight smirk.

She slid her phone across the table. "Try this."

The listing was short. Polished. Vague.

Assistant position. Part time. Flexible hours. Confidential client.

Company name: CeltaDel.

Sunday morning. Ten sharp.

It did not feel impressive.

It felt possible.

"Okay," I said, tapping Apply. "I will try."

When I got home, the silence did not feel empty. It felt intentional.

I moved through the house slowly, noticing things I usually ignored. The way the light hit the corner of the wall. The faint ticking sound coming from somewhere I could never quite locate. The smell of clean fabric from earlier laundry.

I cooked something simple, not because I was hungry, but because I wanted to do something with my hands. I focused on the mechanics of it. Washing vegetables. Cutting them evenly. The repetition steadied me.

As I ate, I let myself think fully, without interruption.

I thought about how long I had been waiting for permission to want more. Permission from who, I was not sure. Maybe from myself.

I realized that nothing in my life was actively wrong. And yet, something was missing. That felt harder to justify, but no less real.

I imagined myself in a different space. Not a fantasy. Just a shift. A desk. A schedule that mattered. Conversations where people listened when I spoke.

I noticed that the thought did not scare me.

That was the clearest sign of all.

I was not running away from my life. I was walking toward another version of it.

And for the first time, that felt allowed.

I showered before bed, letting the water run longer than necessary. I stood there with my eyes closed, listening to it hit the tile, trying not to think about anything at all. When I stepped out, the mirror was fogged, my reflection blurred enough that I did not have to look at myself too closely.

I changed into something soft and familiar and climbed into bed with my phone resting beside me. The room was dim now, the earlier light replaced by shadows that stretched quietly along the walls. I reached for my laptop, then stopped. I did not want to scroll. I did not want noise.

My phone buzzed instead.

An email.

I stared at the screen for a second before opening it, my thumb hovering the way it always did when I sensed something might matter.

Subject: Application Update

My heart picked up, not racing, just alert again in that same way it had been all day.

"Dear Ivy Moore,

Thank you for your interest in the assistant position at CeltaDel. We are pleased to inform you that your application has been selected for the next stage.

We would like to invite you for an in-person interview tomorrow at 10:00 AM.

Warm regards,

Isabelle Madou

HR Coordinator

CeltaDel"

I read it once. Then again, slower.

Tomorrow.

I let the phone rest against my chest and stared up at the ceiling. I noticed how my breathing changed, deeper now, more deliberate. I waited for the familiar spike of panic, the rush of doubt, the instinct to list reasons I might not belong there.

It did not come.

Instead, there was a quiet awareness settling in, steady and undeniable. This was real. This was happening. Not someday. Not eventually. Tomorrow.

I thought about the word selected. How deliberate it sounded. How it implied choice.

I locked my phone and set it face down on the nightstand, as if keeping it visible might make the moment dissolve. The room felt different with that knowledge in it, like the air itself had shifted slightly.

As I turned onto my side and pulled the blanket up, one thought stayed with me, calm and clear.

I had taken a step.

Sleep came more easily than I expected.

Morning arrived too fast.

I lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house wake up around me.

It did not make much noise. Just the soft creak of wood somewhere deeper inside, the faint hum of something electrical I could never quite place.

I noticed how quiet everything felt when I paid attention to it.

Like the house was holding its breath with me.

I sat up slowly, letting my feet touch the floor. The wood was cool against my skin. That small shock grounded me more than I expected. I flexed my toes once, just to feel something solid and real.

In the bathroom, I caught my reflection before I was ready for it. My face looked softer in the morning. Less arranged. My eyes were still slightly puffy, lashes bent in odd directions. I stared at myself longer than usual, trying to see myself without judgment.

You look the same, I thought. And yet, not.

I brushed my teeth carefully, watching the way my jaw moved in the mirror. The routine was automatic, but I noticed every step anyway. The sound of running water. The way toothpaste always slipped down the side of the sink no matter how careful I was. I wiped it away with my thumb without thinking.

As I washed my face, I focused on the sensation. Cool water. Clean skin. My breathing slowing slightly as I leaned over the sink. I realized how often I rushed through mornings, already mentally elsewhere. Today, I stayed.

In my room, I opened the curtains fully. The light came in stronger now, filling the space. Dust caught in it again, floating lazily. I watched it for a second, thinking about how strange it was that something so small could feel calming.

I laid my clothes out on the bed and paused before putting them on. Black pants. White blouse. Simple. Controlled. I smoothed the fabric with my hands, noticing the texture, the way it felt different from the clothes I wore to the café. These clothes asked something different of me.

As I dressed, I paid attention to how everything fit. How the waistband sat at my hips. How the blouse buttoned neatly without pulling. I stood straighter without meaning to. That did not go unnoticed.

In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of water and drank it slowly, leaning against the counter.

The house smelled faintly clean, like soap and something familiar underneath.

I looked around, noticing small things I usually ignored.

A chair slightly out of place. A mug drying on the rack. Evidence of my life, quiet and steady.

I thought about change again.

Not the dramatic kind. Just movement. Just choosing something instead of letting it happen to me.

I checked my phone once. No new messages. I noticed the absence instead of filling it with meaning. That felt important.

Before leaving, I grabbed my bag and paused at the door.

My hand rested on the handle longer than necessary.

I took a breath. Not because I was scared, but because I wanted to remember this feeling.

The stillness. The awareness. The sense that something was about to shift, even if I did not know how yet.

Then I stepped outside and closed the door behind me.

The drive downtown felt longer than usual, even though the route was familiar. I kept my hands steady on the steering wheel, thumbs resting lightly against the leather. I noticed how often I adjusted my grip, loosening it, then tightening again without realizing.

Traffic moved slowly. Not stuck, just deliberate. Cars inching forward, stopping, starting again. I matched their pace automatically, my mind drifting in the spaces between red lights.

I tried to picture where I was going.

An office. Clean. Quiet. Somewhere people spoke in measured voices.

I imagined my boss as an older woman, sharp haircut, glasses perched low on her nose.

The kind of woman who corrected grammar mid-sentence and expected emails to be answered immediately.

Bossy, but competent. Intimidating in a way that felt distant, not personal.

The image made me smile despite myself.

I could handle that, I thought. I had handled worse.

At a stoplight, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. My posture was straighter than usual. My expression more serious. I tilted my head slightly, as if adjusting myself for someone else's gaze, then laughed quietly when I realized what I was doing.

Get a grip, Ivy.

The laugh eased something tight in my chest.

I checked the time again, even though I knew I was early. I always was. Being early felt like a small form of control, like arriving prepared could protect me from embarrassment.

As the buildings grew closer together, taller, more imposing, I became more aware of my body. The weight of my bag against my side. The steady rhythm of my breathing. The faint buzz of nerves settling just beneath my skin.

Not fear, I realized.

Anticipation.

That surprised me.

The building was tucked between two art galleries, understated in a way that felt intentional. No large sign. No glass facade trying to impress anyone. Just a black door with frosted glass and a brass plate engraved with CeltaDel.

I paused outside for a second before going in.

I noticed the reflection of the street in the glass. Cars passing. People walking by without looking at the door at all. The thought struck me that most important places did not announce themselves loudly. They assumed you knew.

Inside, the air changed immediately.

It felt cooler. Quieter. The scent was subtle but distinct. Jasmine, clean paper, something warmer underneath that reminded me of polished wood or old books. I adjusted my bag higher on my shoulder without thinking.

The floor beneath my heels absorbed sound instead of echoing it. I noticed that right away. How my footsteps felt contained, deliberate. Like noise was something managed here.

At the reception desk, a woman looked up. Her movements were precise. Minimal. She did not rush.

"Hello," she said. "You are here for the assistant position?"

"Yes," I said, hearing how careful my voice sounded.

She smiled politely. Not warm, not cold. Professional. "I am Selena."

I noticed how her glasses framed her face. How her posture did not change when she stood. She gestured for me to follow her, already turning.

As we walked, I took everything in.

Glass partitions revealed offices beyond them. Inside, people moved with quiet efficiency. No one lingered. No one seemed unsure of where they were going. Conversations were low, controlled. I noticed how often people nodded while listening instead of interrupting.

I caught glimpses of desks. Clean surfaces. Neatly stacked folders. Laptops positioned just so. Personal items were minimal but intentional. A framed photograph angled inward. A small sculpture. Objects chosen, not accumulated.

I became aware of my own pace. I adjusted it to match Selena's without being asked.

"You are lucky," she said casually as we walked. "Many girls would kill to be in your place."

I thought about that. About how casually the word lucky was used. As if effort did not factor into it at all.

I nodded anyway.

At the end of the corridor, we stopped in front of a large door. The glass was clear, offering a partial view inside. I could see light spilling across dark flooring. The edge of a desk. Shelves lined with books.

"She is finishing a call," Selena said. "You can go in."

I rested my hand briefly against the strap of my bag. Just to feel it there.

I took a breath. Not deep. Just enough.

Then I reached for the handle.

I took a breath and stepped inside.

The office was quiet and bright.

And then there was her.

Celeste Deloera stood near the big windows.

She looked over her shoulder slowly, then turned around completely.

Her gaze met mine.

"Ivy," she said.