PERFECTLY BROKEN

THE ENCOUNTER 🌷

TAYE'S POV😌

I notice things.

Not the loud things—those announce themselves. I notice the pauses. The way a room inhales before something happens. The silence people leave behind when they pass.

That’s how I notice her.

Yemisi doesn’t walk like she wants to be seen. She walks like she already knows she is—and doesn’t care.

I’m seated at the back of the class, chair tilted just enough to annoy the teacher if she turns around, notebook open but empty. The fan above us ticks like it’s tired of trying. SS3 always feels like this—everyone pretending they’re calm, nobody actually breathing right.

Then she enters.

Not late. Not early. Exactly on time, like timing is a weapon she knows how to use.

Her uniform is crisp in a way that feels deliberate. White shirt, sleeves rolled once, not twice. Skirt sitting where it should, not begging for attention. Her braids—dark, neat, pulled back into a low style that doesn’t move when she walks. No beads. No colors. Nothing loud.

Nothing apologetic either.

She doesn’t scan the room. Doesn’t search for anyone’s eyes. She just… arrives. Drops her bag. Sits.

People greet her.

“Good morning, Yemisi.”

“Hey.”

“Yem—”

She doesn’t respond.

Not rudely. Not dramatically. She just doesn’t pick the greetings up. Like they fell at her feet and she stepped over them.

I find myself smiling.

Interesting.

I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on the desk, watching the way she pulls out her notebook with slow precision. The girl beside her—Dawn, I think—leans in to whisper something. Yemisi listens. Nods once. That’s it.

Efficient.

I glance sideways at Emeka, who’s busy tapping his pen like he’s playing drums in church.

“Who’s that?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t look up. “Which one?”

“The one that looks like she’s immune to nonsense.”

He follows my gaze, chuckles under his breath. “Ah. Her. Yemisi.”

I hum. “She always like this?”

“Always,” Emeka says. “No unnecessary movements. No fake smiles. People say she’s proud.”

I watch Yemisi flip a page, unbothered.

“People say nonsense.”

Emeka snorts. “You like trouble, abi?”

I don’t answer.

Because the truth is—I don’t like trouble.

I like patterns.

And Yemisi doesn’t fit the ones I know.

The bell rings later, dragging us into break like an interruption nobody asked for. Chairs scrape. Voices rise. The class spills into the hallway, energy shifting instantly.

I walk out with the boys, hands in my pockets, eyes roaming. The hallway is alive—braids swinging, laughter bouncing off lockers, teachers weaving through students like obstacles.

That’s when it happens.

Yemisi walks past me.

Close enough that I catch her scent—clean, sharp, something floral but restrained. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t acknowledge my existence.

So, naturally, I speak.

“Good morning.”

She stops.

Not abruptly. Not startled. Just… stops.

For half a second, my brain does that thing where it replays the moment like, oh, so this is happening.

She turns to face me.

Her eyes are calm. Assessing. Flat, but not empty.

“Yes?” she says.

One word. Polite. Distant.

I grin slightly. “I said good morning.”

“I heard you.”

Pause.

“So?” she asks.

Emeka coughs behind me. I feel him trying not to laugh.

I tilt my head. “I’m Taye.”

“I know.”

That catches me.

“You do?”

She nods once. “People talk.”

“Ah,” I say lightly. “And yet you don’t greet them.”

Her lips twitch. Not a smile. More like a reflex she stopped halfway.

“I greet who matters.”

Silence drops between us—not awkward. Not tense. Just… there.

I feel it. That quiet weight.

“I won’t waste your time then,” I say. “Enjoy your break.”

She studies me for a moment longer than necessary.

Then she turns.

Walks away.

Just like that.

No goodbye. No insult. No softness.

I watch her go, something warm and curious settling in my chest.

I like that she didn’t try to impress me.

I like that she didn’t care whether I existed or not.

Most of all—

I like that she didn’t pretend.

Later, I find myself thinking about her when I shouldn’t be.

In class. While the teacher talks. While Emeka nudges me to focus.

I replay the way she looked at me—not defensive, not flirtatious. Just… aware.

You’re not special, her eyes seemed to say.

But you’re not boring either.

I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair.

“Dangerous,” I murmur under my breath.

“What?” Emeka asks.

“Nothing,” I say. Then, quietly, to myself:

“Absolutely nothing.”

But I know that’s a lie.

Because something just started.

And whatever it is—it doesn’t look loud.

It looks slow.

And those are always the ones that leave marks.