Ichika | Matsumoto Pov !!top!!

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.” ichika matsumoto pov

I raise my bow.

I am seventeen, and I have never held a boy’s hand. Last week, a boy from the literature club, Tanaka, tried to talk to me in the library. He had kind eyes and a paperback copy of Soseki. He asked if I ever got lonely, practicing alone in the soundproof room until midnight. The Gravity of Silence At school, they see the uniform

Every morning, I wake up at 5:47 AM. Not 5:45, not 5:50. The precision keeps the anxiety at bay. I brush my teeth, tie my hair back with a black elastic that leaves a dent in my ponytail, and walk to the conservatory while the city of Tokyo is still soft and gray. I do not listen to music on my headphones. I listen to the rhythm of the train tracks. Clack-clack, pause. Clack-clack, pause. I count the rests. But they say it like they are naming a separate species

My mother, Reiko, is the sun. I am merely the planet trying not to fall into her corona and burn up. She sits in the back of every lesson, arms crossed, head tilted. She doesn’t smile when I play a passage perfectly. She only uncrosses her arms. That is her applause. Yesterday, I played Paganini’s Caprice No. 24. It took me three years to get the left-hand pizzicato clean. When I finished, the sensei nodded. My mother looked at her watch.