Ichika Matsumoto Pov !new! Review

The bow dances. It skids. It sings. My left hand flies up the fingerboard, not to impress, but to escape. The B-string whines. The E-string screams. I play a wrong note. A glorious, jagged wrong note that is entirely mine. It hangs in the air like a confession.

My name is Ichika Matsumoto, and I am a ghost in my own body. ichika matsumoto pov

“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. The bow dances

I raise my bow.

And then, for the first time in my life, I do not play the notes she taught me. I do not play Paganini or Bach or Tchaikovsky. My left hand flies up the fingerboard, not

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.

But for the first time in seventeen years, the silence after the music does not scare me.