The Photographer's Muse
"He photographs Somali weddings and portraits across London. She's the woman who showed up to model for a hijab brand—shy, stunning, and completely unaware of her effect on him. Behind the camera, he keeps her image. Behind closed doors, he keeps much more."
I've photographed a thousand women.
Brides in gold. Models in silk. Ordinary women who want to see themselves differently. It's my job to find the beauty they can't see.
But Sumaya walks in, and I forget how to hold a camera.
She's here for a modest fashion shoot.
Hired by a hijab brand, new to modeling, so nervous her hands shake when she signs the consent forms.
"First time?" I ask.
"Is it obvious?"
"Only because I've seen the opposite." I set up my lights. "Confidence that's faked. Yours is real—just hidden."
"How do you know?"
"I see people for a living." I gesture to the backdrop. "Ready to let me see you?"
The first shots are stilted.
She's too aware of herself, too controlled. I see her potential but can't unlock it.
"Stop posing," I tell her.
"I'm supposed to pose."
"You're supposed to be photographed." I lower my camera. "There's a difference. Posing is what you think you should look like. Being photographed is what you actually look like when you forget someone's watching."
"How do I forget?"
"Talk to me. Not about the shoot. About you. About why you're here."
She talks.
About growing up in Bristol. About her mother who never felt pretty. About wanting to see Somali women in magazines, on billboards, anywhere but invisible.
"I want girls who look like me to see themselves as beautiful," she says. "That's why I'm here."
"Then be beautiful." I raise my camera. "Show them what that looks like."
The next shots are magic.
I see the change through the lens.
Something unlocks. She stops performing and starts being. The camera loves her—the way she tilts her head, the softness in her eyes, the curve of her lips when she almost smiles.
"That's it—" I keep shooting. "That's exactly it—"
"I feel ridiculous."
"You look transcendent."
She blushes.
I capture that too.
The shoot ends.
But I don't want it to.
"Can I show you something?" I ask.
"The photos?"
"Better." I lead her to my monitor. "Watch."
I flip through the shots in sequence. Her transformation—from nervous model to something else. Someone else. The woman she doesn't know she is.
"That's me?" she whispers.
"That's you." I turn to face her. "That's what I see."
"I've never—" Her voice breaks. "No one's ever—"
"They should have." I touch her face, lifting her chin. "You should have known this your whole life."
She kisses me.
Soft at first, then deeper when I respond. In my studio, surrounded by lights and backdrops, we find something the camera couldn't capture.
"This is unprofessional—" she gasps.
"Extremely."
"We should stop—"
"We should." I pull her closer. "Are you going to?"
She answers by unbuttoning my shirt.
I photograph her differently now.
Not for the brand. For us. Her body in natural light. Her face in morning softness. The parts of her no one else sees.
"Delete those—" she laughs, covering herself.
"Never." I keep shooting. "These are mine."
"Yours?"
"You're mine." I set down the camera. "Aren't you?"
She pulls me onto the bed.
Shows me exactly how mine she is.
The brand loves the photos.
They want more shoots. More of her. She becomes their face—hijabi women across London seeing someone who looks like them in advertisements.
"You made me," she says one night.
"I photographed you. You made yourself."
"You saw something."
"I saw you." I pull her close. "I saw what was always there."
A year later, I propose.
In my studio. Where it started. The ring hidden in a camera bag like a cliché.
"This is where you made me feel beautiful," I tell her. "This is where I want to promise to make you feel that way forever."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm a photographer." I open the ring box. "We're all ridiculous."
She says yes.
I photograph her saying it.
The wedding photos are my best work.
Her face when she sees me at the end of the aisle. Her tears when we exchange vows. Her joy when we're finally alone.
"Stop taking pictures," she laughs.
"Never." I kiss her. "I'm going to photograph every moment of our life."
"Even the boring ones?"
"Especially those." I pull her close. "Those are the ones that matter most."
She lets me photograph everything.
And I let her see how beautiful she is.
Every day.
Forever.