The calluses on my fingertips are the only map I need. They are rough, permanent, and ugly, sitting just below the first knuckle. My classmates spend their allowance on cherry-scented hand cream to impress boys. I spend mine on rosin and gut strings. They don’t know that pain is not the enemy of beauty. It is the prerequisite.
I raise my bow.
Ichika Matsumoto (Age 17, Violin Prodigy) ichika matsumoto pov
I lower my violin.
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.” The calluses on my fingertips are the only map I need