PERFECTLY BROKEN

SILENCE IS CONTROL

YEMISI POV

I don’t remember when my stepmother started saying her name.

Not directly. Not fully. Just enough to make it sting.

“She’s very marketable,” she’d said once, flipping through her phone while I stood in front of the mirror. “Clients like girls like that. Soft. Slim. Effortless.”

Girls like that.

She never needed to finish the sentence. The comparison lived in the pause.

I learned early that you could hate someone you’d never met. That resentment didn’t require introduction—only repetition.

At school, I didn’t know her name. I didn’t care to. I only knew the shape of her presence. The way people shifted when she walked past. The way teachers softened their voices. The way some girls straightened their backs instinctively.

She was in the dance club too.

Of course she was.

That afternoon, Dawn and I were standing near the studio entrance, her talking animatedly about a routine she wanted to try—something fast, something playful, something that fit her body the way confidence fit her smile.

“I think the lift should come earlier,” she said, moving her hands as she spoke. “Like, before the beat drops.”

“That would work,” I replied. “If the timing is clean.”

She grinned. “Exactly!”

That was when the girl approached.

She smiled first—open, easy. The kind of smile people trust without question.

“Hey,” she said to Dawn. “You’re Dawn, right? I saw your performance last term. You’re really good.”

Dawn lit up immediately. “Thank you! You’re in the club too, yeah?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I was thinking—maybe we could practice together sometime? I’m still working on transitions.”

Her voice was gentle. Polished. Harmless.

I looked at her then. Really looked.

Slim frame. Controlled posture. The kind of beauty that photographers love because it doesn’t argue. Because it obeys.

Something inside me went still.

I stepped forward before Dawn could respond.

“She’s busy,” I said.

The girl blinked. Just once. “Oh—okay. I didn’t mean now. Just sometime.”

Dawn glanced at me, surprised. “Yemisi—”

“I know,” I said calmly. “But we already have a routine.”

There was no routine. Not yet.

The girl hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Right. Maybe another time.”

She smiled again—smaller this time—and walked away.

Dawn turned to me. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” I replied.

She studied my face, searching for something. I gave her nothing.

We went back into the studio without another word.

Later, I watched from the mirror as the girl practiced alone at the far end of the room—precise, disciplined, perfect in a way that felt rehearsed. She caught my reflection once and looked away quickly.

Good.

I didn’t know her name.

I didn’t know her brother.

I didn’t know how close she was to the life that kept being used as a measuring stick against mine.

But I knew one thing with certainty.

I did not like her.

And whatever warmth she thought she was entitled to—

she wouldn’t find it here

The message came before sunrise.

Call time: 5:00 a.m. Full rehearsal. Wear the outfit I chose.

Don’t complain. Don’t hesitate.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. I didn’t reply. I never replied. Not to her. Not to anyone who tried to control me like this.

When I arrived, the living room was cold. She was already there, arms folded, heels sharp on the tile floor. Her gaze cut deeper than any critique I had ever received from a casting director.

“You look tired,” she said. Her voice was sugar over steel. “Not that it matters. You never measured up to her. You’ll never be as soft. As delicate. As acceptable.”

I didn’t flinch. I knew what she meant. She meant Ty’s twin—perfect, effortless, untouchable in the ways I had been denied. The comparison had been hanging over me for months, whispered between rehearsals, hidden in her phone screen when she thought I wasn’t looking.

“I am what I am,” I said evenly.

“You could be more,” she snapped, stepping closer. “If you just listened. If you tried harder. Your father—” she paused, venom lacing her words “—didn’t care enough to raise you properly. And your mother—don’t pretend you had one—wasn’t here to guide you either. Lucky for you, I’m patient.”

Her words hit where I already lived. Loneliness. Neglect. The emptiness of absent parents. And yet, I didn’t move.

She gestured to the rehearsal outfit laid across the couch. “I want the scene done exactly like I showed you yesterday. Every expression, every move. Do it wrong, and you’ll remind everyone how disappointing you are. Do it right, and maybe… maybe someone will see you as more than just a ghost in your own life.”

I took the outfit in my hands. Smooth, perfect fabric. I smelled it—her control in a garment. I swallowed. I hated that I hated it. I hated that I had to obey.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, voice flat.

Her eyes narrowed, satisfied. “Good. Remember, you are nothing without discipline. Nothing without comparison. And never forget who you’re failing for.”

I turned away, my chest tight. Inside, I seethed. Outside, I gave nothing. A practiced calm. A mask no one would dare lift.

Because if they knew what I felt… if they knew how much it hurt… it would only give her more power.

And I refused to let her have that.