Ichika | Matsumoto Pov ((top))

It sounds like freedom.

“The vibrato in the third variation was uneven,” she said on the train ride home. “You rushed the descent.” ichika matsumoto pov

The Gravity of Silence

At school, they see the uniform. They see the pale skin and the dark circles under my eyes that concealer can’t hide. They call me “Bijin no Baiorinisuto” —the beautiful violinist. But they say it like they are naming a separate species. When I walk down the hall, the whispers follow like dead leaves in a draft. “She practiced until her fingers bled.” “Her mother drives her three hours to the Suzuki master.” “She doesn’t eat lunch.” It sounds like freedom

“The violin is my partner,” I told him. It sounded poetic. It sounded romantic. But what I meant was: I am too afraid of silence to let anyone else in. They see the pale skin and the dark

I stand in the green room. The other musicians are stretching, humming, pacing. I stand perfectly still. I am a statue. I lift my violin—a 1920 Enrico Rocca, a gift from a grandmother who believed in me before she died—and I tuck it under my jaw. The wood is cold. It smells of old varnish and rosin dust. It smells like my childhood.