PERFECTLY BROKEN

OFF KEY

(Yemisi POV)

The lights were always too bright.

That was the first lie.

People thought I loved this.

The camera.

The gloss.

The fabric clinging to my body like it was designed to erase hesitation.

But lights don’t flatter you.

They expose you.

“Chin up,” the photographer said.

I lifted my chin.

“More curve in your spine.”

I adjusted.

“Relax your shoulders. Soften your mouth.”

Soften.

I wondered if he knew how dangerous that word was.

The outfit was smaller than the one sent in the mood board.

The fabric thinner.

The neckline lower.

I noticed it immediately.

“Is this the approved look?” I asked quietly.

My mother didn’t look up from her phone.

“It’s high fashion,” she replied. “Don’t act difficult.”

The photographer stepped closer.

Too close.

He didn’t touch at first.

Just circled.

Studying.

Tilting his head.

“Think temptation,” he said. “Think control. Like you know what you’re doing to them.”

Them.

I swallowed.

The music playing in the background was slow. Sensual. Intentional.

“Arch more,” he said.

I did.

“More.”

I did again.

He moved behind me.

His voice near my ear now.

“Let the dress fall slightly off the shoulder.”

I hesitated.

“It’s fine,” my mother’s voice cut in sharply. “Do it.”

I let the strap slide.

The camera clicked rapidly.

“Good. Good. That’s it. Stay there.”

His hand brushed my waist.

Not accidentally.

Deliberately.

My body stiffened.

“Relax,” he murmured. “You’re too tense.”

I stepped forward instinctively, breaking contact.

“I’m fine,” I said.

He smiled.

Not kindly.

“You want to be a star, don’t you?”

The word echoed.

Star.

Not girl.

Not daughter.

Not student.

Product.

The next pose required sitting on a velvet couch. One knee raised. Fabric falling strategically.

“Think desire,” he instructed again.

His hand adjusted the hemline higher than necessary.

My throat tightened.

“Please don’t touch me,” I said, softly but clear.

The room went still.

He blinked.

Then laughed lightly.

“Oh, relax. It’s part of the job.”

I stood up.

“I’m done.”

The word surprised even me.

My mother’s head snapped up.

“What did you say?”

“I said I’m done.”

The photographer stepped back, expression shifting from amused to irritated.

“We were just getting good shots.”

“I don’t care.”

My chest was rising too fast now.

The lights felt hotter.

The walls closer.

“I’m not comfortable.”

The silence that followed wasn’t supportive.

It was annoyed.

My mother walked toward me slowly.

Each step measured.

“You are embarrassing me,” she said under her breath.

“I told him not to touch me.”

“And?” she snapped.

The slap came before the sentence finished.

Sharp.

Sudden.

My head turned with it.

The crew pretended not to see.

“You think you are special?” she hissed. “You think opportunities fall from the sky?”

My cheek burned.

“You are replaceable, Yemisi. Don’t ever forget that.”

Replaceable.

The word cut deeper than the slap.

“You don’t walk out because you feel uncomfortable. You endure. That’s what serious girls do.”

Serious girls.

I tasted something metallic in my mouth.

I didn’t cry.

I refused to.

The photographer cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Maybe we can reset.”

“Yes,” my mother said immediately. “She’ll continue.”

I looked at her.

Really looked at her.

And in that moment, I understood something clearly:

I was not her daughter here.

I was her investment.

The lights came back on.

“Back to position,” the photographer said.

My hands trembled as I adjusted the strap again.

This time I didn’t ask if it was approved.

This time I didn’t speak.

I posed.

I arched.

I softened my mouth.

And somewhere between the third and fourth flash—

I left my body.

The camera loved me.

The photographer smiled.

My mother nodded approvingly.

And I learned something new that day.

Silence photographs beautifully.

The old music room smells like dust and forgotten talent.

No one comes here anymore.

The piano is chipped.

One of the windows doesn’t close properly.

And the air always feels heavier than it should.

I like it that way.

It doesn’t expect anything from me.

I locked the door behind me.

Not because anyone would come.

But because I didn’t want witnesses.

I dropped my bag on the floor and sat at the piano bench. The wood creaked under my weight — imperfect, loud, unapologetic.

Unlike me.

My fingers hovered over the keys.

For a moment, I just breathed.

Then I pressed one note.

Soft.

Another.

The sound was slightly out of tune.

Good.

So was I.

I started singing before I could overthink it.

Not polished.

Not trained.

Not posed.

Just low and shaky.

A song I used to hum when I was younger — before cameras, before heels, before “arch more.”

My voice cracked on the second line.

I didn’t stop.

I sang louder.

Not for performance.

For release.

And for a few seconds—

I wasn’t replaceable.

I wasn’t comparison.

I wasn’t investment.

I was just a girl in a dusty room singing badly.

The door clicked.

I froze.

My hands stopped mid-note.

Slowly, I turned.

Taye.

Of course.

He leaned against the door like he’d been there long enough to hear everything.

“That was—”

“Leave.”

My voice was sharp.

He didn’t move.

“I didn’t know you could sing.”

“I said leave.”

He stepped further inside instead.

“Why are you hiding in here?”

“Why are you following me?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

He sighed. “You stormed out of class.”

“And?”

“And you look like you’re about to either punch someone or disappear.”

My jaw tightened.

“Stop analyzing me.”

“I’m not analyzing. I’m asking.”

“Don’t.”

The word came out harsher than I intended.

He glanced at the piano.

“That song—”

“Drop it.”

“Yemisi.”

The way he said my name.

Soft.

Careful.

Like I might shatter.

I hated it.

“I don’t need you hovering,” I snapped. “Go be concerned about someone else.”

He crossed his arms. “You think I enjoy you biting my head off every time I talk?”

“Then stop talking.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Oh? How does it work?”

“You don’t get to treat me like the villain because you’re in a mood.”

The word hit.

Mood.

Like this was temporary.

Like it wasn’t crawling under my skin since that studio.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I said quietly.

“Then tell me.”

I laughed.

Sharp.

“You think I’m going to stand here and confess my secrets because you caught me singing?”

“I think you’re exhausted.”

Silence.

Something inside me snapped.

“I am not exhausted,” I exploded. “I am disciplined. I am focused. I am fine.”

“You’re lying.”

The word was calm.

Steady.

Certain.

And that’s what broke it.

“Stop pretending you see me!” I shouted.

The sound echoed against the old walls.

He didn’t flinch.

“I do see you.”

“No, you see what you want. You see some dramatic version of me that needs saving.”

“I never said you needed saving.”

“You act like it!”

“I act like I care!”

“I don’t want you to care!”

The room went quiet after that.

My chest was heaving.

His eyes were searching.

Dangerously close to understanding.

“You sing like you’re trying to breathe,” he said softly.

I stepped back as if he’d touched me.

“Get out.”

“Yemisi—”

“GET OUT!”

My voice cracked.

And that—

That was worse than the shouting.

For one second, something vulnerable slipped through.

And he saw it.

He saw it.

His expression shifted.

Not anger.

Not pity.

Something heavier.

He walked toward the door slowly.

Before leaving, he paused.

“You don’t have to be perfect in an empty room,” he said quietly.

The door closed behind him.

I stood there alone.

The piano keys still warm under my fingers.

My throat tight.

I swallowed hard.

Then I sat back down.

Pressed one key.

It sounded wrong.

Off-key.

Like me.

And for the first time—

I let myself cry.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just quiet tears in a room no one visits.

Because some girls aren’t allowed to fall apart in public.

So they break in places no one thinks to look.