I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw my violin case onto the Yamanote Line tracks and watch the trains turn it to splinters. But I just looked out the window at the flashing billboards and said, “I will fix it.”
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. ichika matsumoto pov
My name is Ichika Matsumoto, and I am a ghost in my own body. I wanted to scream
I play the sound of the train tracks at 5:47 AM. The hollow rhythm of waiting. I play the sound of my mother’s silence after a perfect run. I play the whisper of my classmates, the soft rustle of Tanaka’s paperback pages, the imagined warmth of a hand I have never held. Not 5:45, not 5:50
I realize, standing there on the stage, that I do not know if I will get the chair. I do not know if I will be first violin or last chair or sent home with a “thank you for your time.”
I raise my bow.