Ichika Matsumoto Pov < 1000+ Updated >

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.

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. ichika matsumoto pov

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.” Every morning, I wake up at 5:47 AM

I lower my violin.

The Gravity of Silence