Ichika Matsumoto: Pov [repack]

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.

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

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 stand in the green room

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.” I am a statue

When I finish, my arm is shaking. Sweat drips down my temple. I look at the panel. They are leaning forward, their faces strange. Not displeased. Confused. Alarmed, even.

The Gravity of Silence

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