Ichika Matsumoto Pov Site

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.

They are not wrong. I don’t eat lunch. Not because I am starving myself for vanity, but because when I eat, the blood rushes to my stomach, and my hands get warm, and the calluses soften. If my hands are soft, I cannot feel the strings. If I cannot feel the strings, I am nobody. 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.” I play the sound of the train tracks at 5:47 AM