Seynabou, Fading Options
She still had the hoodie — the one thing they hadn’t asked her to change yet — and she wore it home from every shoot, pulling it up like a door closing. The contract sat unsigned on the counter of an apartment that wasn’t hers, six pages of clauses about exclusivity and image rights and options they could exercise for years she hadn’t lived yet. Paris was beautiful in the way a locked room you’re not allowed to go into is beautiful.
She kept thinking about the version of herself that could still say no, and how each day made that version a little harder to find in the mirror.
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