Album Days

The recording booth smelled like lemon tea and ozone. It was a scent I usually associated with stress—tight deadlines, producers looking at their watches, the pressure to churn out a hit. But today, it smelled like freedom.

"Let's run the bridge one more time, Cee," the producer’s voice crackled through my headphones. "You were a little sharp on the last measure."

"Got it. Rolling," I said, adjusting the pop filter.

Usually, a deadline this tight would have me climbing the walls. The new single had dropped out of nowhere, and the label wanted an album to capitalize on the momentum yesterday. But strangely, the panic hadn't set in. Instead, I felt a weird, buzzing energy in my chest. I had a backlog of demos I’d been sitting on for months—songs that were too "experimental" or "raw" for my previous image—and now, I finally had the control to shape them exactly how I wanted.

I closed my eyes and let the track wash over me. I wasn't just singing for the charts today; I was singing because it felt good.

By the time I stepped out of the booth, it was past midnight. The studio was quiet, save for the hum of the mixing boards. I collapsed onto the leather couch in the control room, scrolling through my phone while the engineer bounced the files.

My thumb hovered over Parker’s contact name.

It’s too late, I told myself. He’s probably asleep. Or learning lines. Or doing whatever handsome actors do at 1 AM.

I bit my lip. Part of me wanted to brag. I wanted to tell someone who wouldn't just look at the sales projections, but someone who would actually get why I was excited about a chord progression. I typed out a message, deleted it, then typed it again.

Leave it to me to overthink a simple text message, I thought. We’re practically a national couple. I can text him.

Me: Just wrapped up vocals. I think I might actually be a genius. Or delirious.

I was about to lock my phone and toss it into my bag, but the screen lit up instantly.

Parker: Why not both?

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I shouldn't be this happy about a text. I was a professional. I was an adult.

Me: You’re up late.

Parker: Script reading. I’m playing a pianist, remember? I have to look like I know the difference between a major and minor key.

Me: Just don’t hunch your shoulders. And remember, it’s all in the wrists.

Parker: Noted, Maestro. Go to sleep, Cee. You have a long day tomorrow.

Me: You too.

I stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary before sliding the phone into my pocket. The exhaustion finally hit me, heavy and physical, but my mind was still racing.

The next few days were a blur of production meetings, final mixes, and copious amounts of caffeine. But through the haze of exhaustion, the little buzzing feeling didn't go away.

It became a routine. I’d send him a snippet of a lyric; he’d send me a photo of his script covered in coffee stains. I’d complain about the studio AC being broken; he’d send a voice note of him trying to play a scale and failing miserably.

It was... nice. Grounding. It felt like having a secret anchor in the middle of a hurricane.

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with Celeste?"

I looked up from the mixing desk to see Rachel, my stylist and one of the few people who knew the real me, leaning against the doorframe with a suspicious look on her face.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, feigning innocence as I quickly flipped my phone screen down.

"You're humming," she pointed out. "And not in the 'I'm practicing' way. In the 'I'm in a Disney movie' way. Plus, you haven't snapped at the sound engineer once today."

I rolled my eyes, swiveling my chair around. "I'm just productive. The album is coming together."

"Mhm." Rachel walked over and picked up a lyric sheet. "And this? 'The quiet spaces between the noise'? Very poetic. Very... romantic."

"It's about... finding peace in the industry," I lied smoothly.

Rachel gave me a look that said she didn't believe a word of it, but she dropped it. "Well, whatever it is, keep doing it. You’re glowing. It’s making my job very easy."

I huffed. "I always glow."

"Sure, honey. Sure."

By Friday, the final masters were done. The studio was silent again. The team had left for the night, leaving me alone with the finished product. I should have been heading home to sleep for a week, but I was sitting on the floor of the vocal booth, legs crossed, phone in hand.

I scrolled up to see our last conversation from this morning. Just silly banter about breakfast foods.

I missed him.

The thought hit me with the force of a physical blow. It wasn't just missing the banter or the distraction. I missed him. I missed the way he looked when he was listening to me talk about music, the way his eyes crinkled when he found something funny, the way he felt safe.

It was dangerous. We were playing a game, and I was starting to forget the rules.

I wanted to text him. I wanted to say, 'I wish you were here to hear this.'

I started typing.

Me: I miss—

My thumb hovered over the send button. Stupid, I chastised myself. Too much. Too real.

I went to backspace it, to erase the evidence of my momentary lapse in judgment.

Ding.

A message bubble appeared on the screen, pushing my drafted text up.

Parker: I miss you.

I froze. The air in the booth suddenly felt very thin. I stared at the three words, reading them over and over again to make sure I wasn't hallucinating from sleep deprivation.

My heart did a traitorous little flip in my chest—not the stage fright flutter, but something warmer, deeper. Like puzzle pieces falling into place.

I deleted my draft. I took a breath, trying to steady my shaking fingers, and typed back.