Will She Ever Sing Again? 
 
The song starts before she even wakes: Rise and shine.  
You don't want them to think you're lazy.  
Smile a little. 
 Come on. 
 You look miserable.  
She lives inside a song she didn't choose. 
 A melody written before she could speak.  
A rhythm set before she could listen.  
It plays through mirrors, through side-eyes and passing glances, through sweet notes that mask silent demands.  
Soft.  
Constant.  
Everywhere.  
She doesn't remember learning the tune.  
Only that it's always been there.  
It's music she learned to sway to before she even realized she was dancing.  
And now she knows the choreography by heart: straighten the back, tuck in the stomach, tilt the chin, smile—but not too much. Look confident but not cocky.  
Effortless but not careless.  
Polished but never fake.  
Each move falls on beat.  
Each glance must be measured.  
Each silence strikes like a staccato.  
She doesn't live.  
She performs.  
She doesn't dress to feel beautiful.  
She dresses to match the key— soft enough to blend, sharp enough to stay in tune, never bold enough to lead the chorus.  
The lyrics are already written: You're ugly if you try too hard. You're desperate if you stand out. You're lazy if you fall behind. You must be polished— but never obvious. She picks up the red lipstick— but red is a solo. Red is dissonance. Red is a jazz riff in a room that only allows lullabies. So she wipes it off, applies gloss instead. A shimmer on the surface, never a crescendo. Her clothes lie scattered, not because they don't fit her body, but because they don't fit the perfect pitch demanded of her. Not too bold. Not too bare. Muted colors. Muted voice. Nothing that would break the harmony. She dresses in safety. She smiles for survival. She softens every dissonant note until she becomes background music. The melody shifts, whispering what she can and cannot want: Hunger is greed. Appetite is ugly. Lighter. Cleaner. Quieter. Always quieter.  
She reaches for the lighter plate, not because she craves it, but because fullness is offbeat, and indulgence is out of tune. She plays along. The music hums, satisfied. She moves quietly through her day, like background noise in someone else's movie, choosing silence over hunger, still blending into the song. But the music keeps playing. In the background, a chorus hums: Post more. Smile more. Gather followers like applause. Because in this world, you are not a voice— you are a mix. Filtered. Tuned. Adjusted. Another instrument playing the same tired refrain. Being seen means staying on beat. Being liked means staying in key. And her worth is tuned to invisible meters she never agreed to. And the worst part is— she trusts the music. It is not loud. It is not kind. It is a low, endless hum, drowning her out, note by note. It teaches her how to shrink herself sweetly, how to vanish between verses, how to harmonize without ever being heard. It tells her this is what being good looks like. This is what being a girl is. But it was never her song. Never her voice. Never her choice. The melody plays on— and she wonders if she will ever sing again.