📘 2007: A Girl with No Tomorrow

✦ Chapter 6: Play Something Beautiful, or Else

> “My fingers were made for music.

But I was never allowed to play what I felt.”

— Aki Hoshino

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The ride was quiet.

Aki sat in the back seat of her mother’s car, hands folded on her lap, dressed in a pale cream formal dress. Her hair was curled — not by her choice — and her lips had a layer of gloss that she hated the taste of.

The piano contest was being held at a private cultural center. Expensive flooring. Silent hallways. Judges who smiled with clipped politeness.

Aki wasn’t nervous. Not because she was confident.

Because she didn’t care.

Her mother drove with one hand, the other texting furiously in her Elite Moms '07 chat.

> “She’s playing second today. Will update with results.”

“Other girls look weak this time. Should be an easy win.”

Aki glanced out the window.

Rain tapped the glass lightly, like someone trying to ask her: "Are you okay?"

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They parked.

Before getting out, her mother turned and looked at her sharply.

“You better not embarrass me today,” she said, voice low but ice-cold. “Understand?”

Aki nodded slowly.

“You looked tired lately,” her mother added, like an accusation. “Fix your posture before you go on stage. Smile when you bow. No sloppy behavior. And don’t cry if you lose — you’ll ruin my name.”

Aki didn’t reply. She was used to this.

What she hadn’t gotten used to — was how empty she felt even when she won.

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Backstage, girls whispered around her. Some adjusted their gloves, some shook nervously.

Aki just sat, eyes unfocused, staring at the black piano keys through the curtain.

She remembered being five — playing a broken tune on her first toy keyboard. She had smiled so brightly that day.

That smile had been taken, bit by bit, at every contest since.

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When her name was called, Aki walked to the grand piano like a ghost.

She bowed. Perfectly.

Sat down. Lifted her hands.

And began.

She played Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp minor — delicate, technical, mournful.

Every note was flawless.

Every transition smooth.

The judges scribbled notes. Her mother watched from the audience, recording every second like a hawk watching its prey.

But Aki wasn’t there.

She was somewhere far beneath the notes — deeper than the melody could reach. She didn’t feel her hands. She didn’t feel the applause.

When she finished, she bowed again and walked offstage.

Another girl whispered, “She’s not even human.”

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An hour later, the results were announced.

First place: Hoshino Aki.

Her mother clapped before anyone else. Loud. Proud.

But Aki stood still.

Not even a smile.

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In the car, her mother handed her a boxed dessert.

“You did well,” she said, opening her phone to brag to her group chat. “Maybe you’re not totally hopeless.”

Aki stared at the dessert. Strawberry shortcake.

She used to love it as a child.

Now it tasted like cardboard.

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Back home, she placed the new trophy beside the others. Another clone. Another stranger.

She opened her notebook.

> Date: October 19, 2007

Played perfectly. Felt nothing.

They clapped. She smiled. I didn't.

Today’s death thought: What if I stopped mid-performance?

Would the world freeze — or move on without missing a note?

I want to play a wrong note on purpose.

Just once. Just to see what it feels like.

She stared at her piano.

Then closed the lid, slowly, softly — like closing a coffin.

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End of Chapter 6

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