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“Come on Kousei! Batter up!”
“Do people even say that in softball?”
“Who cares?” Tsubaki pointed at Kousei intendly, the yellow of the softball visible from her fist. “Stay focused!”
“Fine, fine.” Kousei muttered under his breath as he lifted up the bat. Tsubaki told him it was the lightest bat in the school, so it should be no problem to swing, but the weight felt uncomfortable and wrong on his arms. He frowned as he swung it back and forth; how was he supposed to hit anything like this?
“Ready?” Tsubaki called.
“No.” Kousei called back. “I want to go home.”
As if she heard nothing, Tsubaki continued: “Just keep your eyes on the ball, and swing! Alright then, here it comes!”
Just when Kousei processed the words spoken at him, he saw Tsubaki throw the ball in his direction. Keep your eyes on the ball she told him, but looking at the ball filled him with a sense of panic.
It’s going to hit me! Kousei thought, and the next thing he knew it, he squeezed his eyes shut, and began flailing his bat in the air. He never felt the impact of the ball though, either on the bat of his body. Instead, he heard Tsubaki’s distant laughter. He opened his eyes to see the ball on the ground behind him.
“What are you doing?” Tsubaki asked, wiping away tears in her eyes. “I’ve never seen anyone so bad at batting before! Not even in the little leagues!”
Kousei huffed loudly as he set the bat down with a thud. “I’m just not good at sports, Tsubaki. I never have been — why do you think that’ll suddenly change?”
On a hot summer day, the last thing Kousei wanted to do was be outside, directly in the sun, and swinging a bat. He could already feel the sweat clinging to his clothes, and he didn’t bring a change with him, which meant he had to bear the fifteen minute walk home with a practically wet shirt. The thought alone made Kousei more miserable than he already was.
“You need to do something.” Tsubaki insisted, as she picked up another ball from the bucket. “Otherwise, you’re going to spend all summer sleeping again!”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Kousei replied. “You spend half of your summer playing video games. It’s the same thing!”
“It is not!” Tsubaki gritted her teeth at him. “I enjoy my summer to the fullest because I have hobbies! Sleeping is not a hobby!”
Kousei thought that sleeping was a fine hobby, but from the way Tsubaki thumped her foot against the ground and growled like a horse ready to run him over, he doubted she would listen.
“I have other hobbies.” Kousei said, poking at the ground with his bat. “I read a lot.”
“That’s old people's hobbies.” Tsubaki declared. “You don’t even read good stuff like manga! You just read boring novels with ugly covers. How is that an image of youth?!”
“This is stupid.” Kousei decided, dropping the bat. “There’s no way I’m going to get into sports. I’m going inside — I need air conditioning.”
“Ah!” Tsubaki exclaimed. “Kousei, wait—!”
Kousei did not wait, though, waving his hand behind him as he disappeared into the school.
—
The next few days were some sort of hell, clearly being sent to torture Kousei specifically, he thought. It seemed like each second either Tsubaki or Watari would come over, showing Kousei a new hobby to fill in the empty hole that the piano left behind.
His face was still covered in bandages, from their attempt to get him to play basketball.
“You’re all tall and lanky now, so it’s perfect!” Tsubaki told him. “Trust me, you were built for basketball! Your life changing career starts now!”
His ‘life changing career’ was cut short within thirty minutes, once the ball bounced off the net and directly into his face for the third time, knocking him out and putting an end to his suffering. At the very least, when he woke up at the nurses office, he was greeted with Tsubaki promising she would lay off on the ball sports. Really, the fact that it took her so long to accept it was ridiculous, but Kousei would take anything he could get.
That didn’t mean Tsubaki or Watari had given up on other hobbies, though. So when Kousei watched Watari plop down at his desk with a smirk, he immediately wanted to leave.
“Hey, Kousei—”
“No.” Kousei cut him off. “I’m not going to go fishing.”
Watari blinked, and then bursted into laughter. “Fishing? That’s a good one. I didn’t think of that!”
“Well don’t think of it.” Kousei grimaced. “I hate the smell of fish.”
“This one won’t smell.” Watari said, sliding a paper on his desk. “Promise.”
Kousei wasn’t sure if he even wanted to look at it. But if he didn’t, then Tsubaki would no doubt break into his house and stick the paper on the walls in every room, until he finally read it. So, reluctantly, he peered over.
The words ‘writing’ and ‘competition’ was all he needed to lose interest.
“You like books now, right? Writing is basically the same thing.” Watari said. “It’s not athletic, either. It’s an art form, like piano. Suits you perfectly.”
Kousei shuffled in his seat, grumbling. “I don’t know…”
“And hey, remember fifth grade poetry?” Watari leaned in, his grin widening. “Your poetry about the piano.”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“The teacher loved it. She said you have talent, and you’ll go far.” Watari continued. “This is your thing!”
What Watari really meant is that she thought it was grim, so much so that she nearly called his mom. It was on Kousei for pouring so much of himself into it, but he didn’t think they would turn it in, and before he knew it, he was sitting in the teacher’s lodge. He had to lie to her saying yes, he was fine, there were no problems, he just got too into the story.
She did compliment his writing, sure, but Kousei was so embarrassed that she had read the poem in the first place that the words went in one ear and out the other. She nearly went to frame it after, and Kousei had to beg her not to.
Watari’s long fingers tapped against the sheet, reminding Kousei that he was still waiting for an answer.
“I don’t think I can do it…” Kousei mumbled, looking away from the pamphlet, and Watari’s expecting eyes.
“Why not?” Watari asked, and stopped tapping his fingers.
Kousei wasn’t… exactly sure how to answer that. He quit the piano, there was no way he could go back, and he knew that. Which meant nothing was stopping him from picking up a new hobby. Maybe it wasn’t what his mom wanted, but he already failed to carry her legacy, anyways.
“You don’t have anything to lose.” Watari spun the pamphlet around to face him, as he scanned the words. “It’s a school event, so they’re not expecting anything crazy. It’s not like your national piano competitions.”
Kousei’s breath hitched.
“No one’s going to laugh at you if you fail.” Watari pointed out. “It’s not a stage. It’s just you and the pen, and maybe one judge. If they don’t like it, they’ll just move on, y'know? It’s not like they’re going to talk shit behind your back.”
It was clear what Watari was referring to. Kousei wiped his hands against his pants, feeling nervous suddenly. He knew what Watari was saying, but still…
“Anyway,” Watari slid the paper back to Kousei. “It’s free, so I think you should try it. But, hey, that’s just me.”
With that, he stood up and went to go talk to a girl three seats away from Kousei, leaving him alone to stare at the paper.
It was brightly decorated, with cute cartoons of people smiling as they wrote. Color filled bubbled words, such as “future” and “passion” and “discover yourself through writing!” which all meant very little to Kousei, now.
He ran his fingers through the words, as if it would give him any answers.
“How am I supposed to discover myself?” he asked the paper.
The paper didn’t answer.
—
“I heard from Watari the other day!” Tsubaki said, bumping her shoulder against Kousei’s. “You’re going to enter a writing competition? That’s great!”
“I didn’t say that.” Kousei huffed.
After Watari brought him the pamphlet, he shoved it in his bag and didn’t look at it again. It was still in there, like a burning hole in his bag. He told himself to throw it out. He hadn’t, yet.
“I always knew you’d be a novelist.” Tsubaki continued.
“No, you didn’t.” Kousei drawled.
“What are you going to write?” she asked, leaning into his face. “Sci-fi? Mystery? You seem like a mystery kind of guy. Y'know, detectives like Sherlock Holmes, Arsène Lupin…”
“Arsène Lupin is a thief.”
“Oh, you could write a romance!” Tsubaki exclaimed. “Teenagers love a good romance.”
“You’re not listening to anything I’m saying, are you?” Kousei sighed. “I don’t know why I even bother.”
Tsubaki slapped her hand against Kousei’s back three times. “Seriously, this is great for you. I think you’re going to like it a lot. It’s going to change your whole life.”
Kousei wondered how Tsubaki still had the energy to have so much confidence in his future, when he had done nothing but fail every hobby she assigned him that week. But when Kousei opened his mouth to complain, Tsubaki flicked on her phone and hummed.
“I got to go see Nao, now. Club things.” she shrugged as she slid her phone back in her pocket. “Go get ‘em, future award winning author!”
Before Kousei could say anything, she darted off, as quickly as she came. He deflated immediately, hanging his head low.
“‘Award winning’,” he scoffed. “Yeah, right. I don’t feel like a winner at all.”
—
The paper looked less colorful in the dimness of his room, when Kousei finally took it out and sat it on his desk. He grumbled to himself as he reread the guidelines, tapping his pencil against the desk.
A limit of 2000 characters, it said, which both seemed like too much, and not enough. It was a school run event, so it was no wonder they kept it short; they didn’t want kids submitting novels, after all. No doubt if they put no limit, there would be a handful of crazy students who would, in fact, submit a novel. He heard chatters about the event in the library, about all the ideas they had. How they planned to use those ideas for a novel too, in the future.
Kousei put his head in his hands.
What about him? What did he want to write?
He had read so many different stories. Different genres, anything really, to escape his monotonous world, even if it was just for a split second. So there were quite a few genres that he was familiar with.
But could he write a story?
Stories were such personal and vulnerable things, Kousei learned. He took his time to read the author notes, many of them describing their own connections to the characters or plot.
He thought back to the piano, which still called out to him.
Then, Kousei immediately shook his head. He quit the piano, so it didn’t make any sense to write about the piano. But, outside of the piano, what did he know?
The tapping of his pencil got louder and louder, until it flung off Kousei’s hand. His once empty paper was full of random pencil streaks from his tapping, which he definitely couldn’t submit for a competition, so he stuffed it into a ball, and tossed it in his trash can under his desk.
“Think, Kousei.” he whispered to himself, pulling at his bangs. “Think.”
Sci-Fi was a no go, because that required too much research that Kousei wasn’t willing to do. Nor could he write a proper detective story; all the ones he enjoyed were written carefully, plots lined up perfectly to keep the readers engaged. Kousei didn’t have enough confidence to write something like that when he had never written in his life.
He thought of the last suggestion Tsubaki offered, and immediately wrinkled his nose. Romance was definitely not an option. Though he enjoyed reading it, he didn’t understand romance in the slightest, and the thought of writing his own made him want to hide in a puddle of shame forever.
“It’s hopeless.” Kousei said, turning off the light on his desk, and letting the room fall into darkness. “There’s no way I can do it. I don’t know what Watari and Tsubaki were thinking.”
Just yet another thing he couldn’t seem to do, he thought as he slumped face down on his bed.
His body, his hands, and his mind only seemed to be suited for the piano, after all. It was unfair; Watari and Tsubaki had so many different talents and hobbies, living their days to the fullest. Kousei could only drag behind them, messing up each new thing that was introduced to him. He was hopeless in sports, he had no artistic sense or imagination, and he was far too clumsy to cook without hurting himself.
Usually, when Kousei got discouraged, he would fall asleep. Sleeping meant he didn’t need to think anymore, so it was comforting. But for some reason, Kousei found himself sitting up, and dragging his feet out of his room.
He didn’t really know where he was going, until he stopped at a door.
The door to the piano room.
Kousei gripped the hem of his shirt.
He hadn’t opened the door since he lost his ability to hear his notes. After the mess of the competition, Hiroko took him back to her place for a while. It was there that he tried to play again, only to run to the bathroom and throw up his lunch. Since then, he had yet to dare to open the door to the piano room, nor did he speak to Hiroko ever again.
The door opened with a gentle creak.
It was dark and dusty — of course, it had been abandoned for two years. The walls and shelves were still decorated with all the trophies he won, as well as framed newspapers from interviews he didn’t remember giving. Various scores rested against the black piano; Hanon, Chopin, Beethoven… all covered in a thick layer of dust, covering their color.
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, Third Movement was still resting on the stand, three pages in, waiting to be played. He flipped it back to the beginning, and sat down.
Honestly, he didn’t need to look at the sheet. He still knew the piece well by heart. But he ran his eyes through the notes anyways, humming to himself and drumming the tempo against his knee as he did. The sound didn’t disappear from him, but Kousei wasn’t surprised. After all, it was the piano that had rejected him, not his voice.
Carefully, he opened the lid of the piano.
Since they were covered by the lid, the keys were clean, for the most part. They looked dull in the darkness, though. Nothing like the shining black and white he would see on the concert pianos on stage.
Carefully, he brought his pointer finger to middle C.
Duum, duum, duum…
The sound played out. Sounds that, so far, Kousei could hear.
He sighed in relief, and looked back at the sheets. Maybe, just maybe, he could play through one piece without losing the sound.
But the moment he set his fingers in position, he got nervous. After all, it was always by playing Moonlight Sonata that he had problems. What if it was the piece? What if it wasn’t the piano that rejected him, but Beethoven?
Kousei knew he was being ridiculous at this point, but he shut the score anyways, coughing at the dust that got in his face from the movement. Then, he moved to the bookshelf, stuffing Moonlight Sonata back in the first empty spot he found.
He skimmed through the pieces, some which he played many times for competitions, some which he never touched. Some which his mom was particularly fond of — he made sure to skip over Love’s Sorrow.
Eventually, he settled on Chopin’s Nocturne No. 2, Op.9.
He played it once, maybe twice. It wasn’t really his style, with a gentle sound at steady time. Kousei always played fast pieces, most of these easily around 170 bpm or so, because he could play them accurately, and it impressed the judges, or so his mother told him.
It was a change. It was something new. Maybe, what he really needed was a breath of fresh air.
He set the score down on the stand, and let out a shaky breath. Slowly, he began to play.
At first, everything went fine. The room was dark, with no lights on, so occasionally Kousei would misread a note. But he pressed through, anyways, determined to get through the piece. With each passing moment, his worries of the sea coming back to drown him faded away, as he got more and more into the music.
He even thought it was… fun, maybe. Nothing Tsubaki and Watari tried to make him do that week could even compare to the way he felt then; the piano beneath his fingers felt right. Natural. As though it was what they were meant to do.
Maybe, there was hope for him after all.
His stomach twisted, the moment he had that thought. The air felt heavy, and Kousei couldn’t push any through his lungs. He could see his hands shaking, and he really didn’t know why, because he was doing so well… He was doing so well…
The next thing he knew it, the darkness of the room clouded over his sheets, to the point where he could no longer see the notes. Through a blurry haze, he could barely make out the white keys, but he could hardly tell them apart.
The music was gone, as well.
No notes, only the sounds of the desperate thumping of his foot against the pedal, his fingers bashing against the keys, and his choked sobs filled the air.
“This is your punishment.” he heard his mom’s voice, echoing.
“No—” Kousei immediately pulled his hands away from the keyboard and pressed his hands against his ears as hard as he could. “No, no no no—”
“You rejected me.”
“I’m sorry!” Kousei sobbed. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t leave me alone. I’m scared!”
As if to torture him more, his mom didn’t speak, and no matter how much he searched in the dark room, he couldn’t see her.
“Mom?” Kousei’s voice cracked. “Please, come back. Tell me what to do.”
But he saw no wheelchair, nor did he hear the click of a cane. All he saw in front of him was a gold trophy, proudly displayed on top of one the shelves.
The Nagai Memorial Competition, first prize. He remembered taking a photo of mom and himself holding the trophy afterwards. And how he walked home with the trophy cradled in his arms, thinking about how beautifully the gold shined in the sun.
The trophy was no longer shining, covered in dust and hidden from any sun. Even so, it was too grand, too proud for Kousei’s liking. It seemed to be mocking him as it reflected back on him. His disheveled hair, his deep eyebags, his flaky skin that clung to his bones like a corpse.
“Look who you’ve become.” it seemed to say to him. “Nothing but a broken puppet without its master.”
Kousei gritted his teeth and grabbed the trophy. He wanted to smash it against the wall, until it broke into tiny little pieces. He wanted to smash all of the trophies in the room, to rip the framed newspapers of his fame and shred them into pieces.
Who would care? His mother was dead. His father wouldn’t notice. Hiroko was busy with her own family, and probably didn’t even remember Kousei anymore.
His hands shook, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to smash the trophy, or even drop it. It remained in his hands, dusty and forgotten, but safe and in one piece.
Slowly and carefully, he sat it back down on the shelf, and fell to his knees.
“Sorry.” he choked out. Kousei didn’t know who he was apologizing to. The trophy, his mother, his sorry self. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”
He was grateful that his father was never home, then, and that Tsubaki rarely barraged into his house, for the last thing he wanted was for anyone to see him like this. Rubbing the tears away from his eyes, Kousei remembered that there were cardboard boxes left over downstairs, from when he and his dad bought a bunch to clean out his mom’s belongings.
Wordlessly, he made his way downstairs, fished out all of the boxes he could hold in his hands, and made his way back upstairs. Carefully, he picked up the Nagai Memorial Competition first place trophy, and without wiping away the dust, he placed it in the box. Next to it, the Inoha Music Competition trophy. And then, the Saiki Competition trophy, where he was labeled as the youngest winner.
He continued on, a routine. Pick up a trophy, place it in the box. When there was no room left, he shut it tight, with duck tape, and opened a new box.
Before he knew it, the room was completely emptied out, save for the piles of scores on top of the piano. But it was nicer like this, he thought. It looked like the piano room of someone who failed; of someone who lacked the potential to make it far. No trophies to remind him of who he used to be.
With a deep breath, he left the room, closing the door behind him. This time, he promised himself he wouldn’t go back in, again.
There was nothing left for him there, anymore.