The studio smelled like metal and coffee and something colder — something sharp I couldn't name.
The walls were lined with foam panels, meant to trap the sound inside, but it felt like they were trapping me.
I stood in the recording booth, headphones clamped over my ears, the microphone hanging in front of me like a noose.
Through the glass, I could see them.
The producer, the manager, the label rep — all leaning back in their chairs, sipping coffee, watching me like I was just another investment.
Just another product.
"Again," the producer said, his voice crackling through my headphones.
"Make it sexier this time. Smile when you sing."
I didn't feel like smiling.
The lyrics in front of me — they weren't mine.
They didn't mean anything.
They were about clubs and cars and shallow love, not the stories I used to write in the quiet hours of the night, dreaming of something real.
But I nodded.
Because that's what they wanted.
The track started. Heavy beat. Shiny, soulless.
I opened my mouth and sang the words — sweet, empty lies rolling off my tongue.
I tried to fake it.
Fake the passion. Fake the joy.
But each word felt like a tiny betrayal.
This isn't me, the voice inside me screamed.
This isn't your music.
I clenched my fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
Maybe if I hurt myself just a little, it would keep me awake.
Keep me real.
Through the glass, the producer held up his hand, stopping the track.
"Not good enough," he barked. "Where's the fire? Where's the sex appeal? Come on, girl, this is pop, not poetry!"
Laughter echoed from behind the glass.
Not mine.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
Smile, I told myself. Smile, and survive.
This is what you wanted.
Isn't it?
I tried again.
And again.
And again.
Each take stripped another layer off me, like skin peeling under a blade.
By the end of the session, I didn't even hear the music anymore.
I didn't even hear my own voice.
I walked out of the booth, my legs trembling, my face frozen in a practiced grin.
"Good job," the manager said, clapping me on the back.
"You're going to be a star."
I nodded.
Said thank you.
Signed the paperwork.
But inside, I was screaming.
Inside, I was already gone.
Another piece of me left behind in that cold, airless room.
Another nail in the coffin of the girl I used to be.