Page 112 of Saint Céline
“About what? I have nothing to hide.” I respond with a smile.
She smiled sadly. “Exactly.”
Then she left.
I stood alone at my bench for a moment, listening to the rain and the faint hum of equipment. The office door remained closed. Vincent’s silhouette moved behind the glass. I should have gone straight back to the dorm. Instead, I went to the library.
Not the main floor where everyone pretended to study while hoping to be seen. I went to the upper level, to the quiet biology stacks where no one went unless they had an exam or a personality disorder. I found a table near the window, opened my laptop, and pulled up the proposal file.
Adaptive Cellular Response Under Chronic Environmental Stress.
byCéline Martin.
I stared at it with increased determination. Then I opened a blank document beside it. For years, Katherine had made things sound like me. No. That was not true. For years, Katherine had made me sound like someone better. Smarter. Cleaner. Worthy of the rooms I entered. The proposal was hers. I could not change that. No amount of editing would make the content mine. But Vincent had made one mistake when he cornered me with that file. He thought shame would make me obedient. Shame had done many things to me over the years, but it had never made me lose focus on the end goal.
I reread the methods section slowly. It was elegant, precise, almost painfully Katherine. I could hear her in the restraint of it. No unnecessary flourish. No decorative confidence. Just aclean scientific discipline created by a brilliant mind. My throat tightened.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. The words vanished between the shelves.
Then I began making notes. Not pretending to understand. Actually trying. It was humiliating at first. I had to look up terminology I should already know. I reread the same paragraph six times and still had to draw the process out like a child. I watched three videos on repair pathway plasticity with the sound low and captions on because I did not trust myself to absorb anything by reading alone.
I made a separate document titled “Questions I need to ask Vincent”, then filled half a page before realizing the title was stupid because I would rather die than ask him half of them.
After an hour, the work stopped looking like a wall and started looking like a locked door. That was better. Doors could be opened.
By eight o’clock, the sky outside had gone dark, and the library lamps reflected warmly against the rain-covered windows. My coffee had gone cold. My eyes burned. My notes were messy and imperfect and mine.
My phone buzzed with a text from Sophia.
Sophia:are you alive?
I typed back slowly.
Céline :physically
Sophia:spiritually?
Céline :legally uncertain
Sophia:come home. miss astoria is screaming at your bedroom door and anya is negotiating with her like a hostage mediator
A laugh escaped me quietly. I began gathering my things. Then my phone buzzed again. This time it was Vincent.
Vincent:Your questions document is missing the most important one.
My gaze snapped to the laptop. The document was open.Questions I need to ask Vincent.I looked around the library immediately, but the biology stacks were empty except for a student asleep three tables away with one cheek pressed against an open textbook.
My phone buzzed again.
Vincent:You left document sharing enabled on the lab folder.
I stared at the message. Then at the laptop. Then back at the message with embarrassment.
Céline :Stop reading my private notes.
His reply came almost immediately.
Vincent:Stop storing them in shared folders, then. I can’t help but look.
