Ichika Matsumoto Pov May 2026

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.”

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. ichika matsumoto pov

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. I wanted to scream

My name is Ichika Matsumoto, and I am a ghost in my own body. Last week, a boy from the literature club,

I looked at my hands. I looked at the rough, scarred skin. I thought about how his soft, lotioned fingers might feel against mine. Like sandpaper on silk. Wrong.

“The violin is my partner,” I told him. It sounded poetic. It sounded romantic. But what I meant was: I am too afraid of silence to let anyone else in.

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.