Chapter 5
At the beginning of the competition, everything seemed normal.
No one in the audience was surprised, and the judges who were familiar with Kousei Arima even appeared relieved. After all, the boy standing before them was the Kousei Arima — the "human metronome."
But midway through the performance…
Kousei's fingers faltered.
He could no longer hear the piano.
A flash of panic crossed his face. He tried desperately to adjust, but the shadows of his past clung to him like chains, making it impossible to recover.
At that moment—
Kousei gave a bitter, hollow smile, his hands trembling as they lifted away from the keys.
The performance stopped.
And stopping meant only one thing in a competition: surrender.
Just like that—
The performance of the prodigy, Kousei Arima, was over.
A messy, heartbreaking end.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the hall. Many musicians stared at the stage, questioning if the boy in front of them was truly Kousei Arima. In the eyes of some fans, unwillingness and disappointment were written clearly. But reality was undeniable:
Kousei Arima — the former piano genius — had truly fallen.
---
Beneath the stage, Kousei's friends Tsubaki Sawabe and Ryouta Watari sat in stunned silence. They didn't know how to comfort him when it was over.
But then—
Kousei began to play again.
This time, he remembered what Kaori Miyazono had once told him: "Play with your own feelings. Paint the music with your heart."
Though his competition slot had already been forfeited, he poured his emotions into the keys, reshaping the song's tone as if Kaori herself stood before him.
The melody — filled with the gentle warmth of April — swept through the hall.
The audience, caught in the unexpected beauty of it, erupted into applause.
---
After the performance, Kousei's aunt smiled knowingly.
> "Your song already told us — you like her."
He had been eliminated, yes.
But the heartfelt second half of his performance with Kaori earned them something unexpected: a special invitation to perform at the upcoming Towa Hall Music Festival.
---
The festival's third performance arrived.
Kaori Miyazono wasn't there.
Kousei chose to play alone.
During the event, a jealous junior high student made a cutting remark about Kaori. The insult burned in Kousei's chest, and he sat at the piano, anger shaping his choice.
He played "Love's Sorrow", his late mother's favorite piece.
But the notes were harsh, almost violent. The sound disappointed many of the musicians who had come to hear the legendary Kousei Arima. Once, none of them could compete with his skill — the "robot," the "human metronome," the "child prodigy."
Now, listening to this jagged, unrefined performance, they whispered: "Is this really all that's left of him?"
The prodigy… had truly fallen.
---
Yet, as the jarring rhythm echoed through the hall, something shifted. The sound of his own fingers striking the keys began to wake him from his anger.
"Love's Sorrow" — the piece he had played the most in his life. He knew it so well that his hands could play it without conscious thought.
He remembered his mother's frail hand guiding his own across the keys. He remembered once asking why she loved this song.
Her reply came back to him in that moment:
> "Kousei, you have to get used to sadness in the future…"
He had never understood. Or maybe, he had simply avoided it all these years.
Now, through the music, through the memories, through every subtle detail, he finally felt it — his mother's love.
And so, he broke free of the chains around his heart.
The tone of the piano changed. He played "Love's Sorrow" again — this time, not with anger, but with love for his mother.
---
The hall grew quiet.
The performance of the true Kousei Arima had returned, and the audience was spellbound. Many forgot there were other performers still to come.
Kousei had cast off the shadow of his mother's strict expectations. His fear of the piano was gone.
---
Watching from Ryuo Tenshin's living room, Kawasaki Saki and Yuiga Mizuki found themselves biting their lower lips, eyes glistening. A warm current rose in their chests and spilled into their eyes, threatening to undo the tears they had only just held back.
The writing was raw. The psychological depth of each character felt real, pulling them in until they could no longer keep their emotions at bay.
This… was the power of words.
They quickly set the manuscript down, grabbing tissues and turning their faces away so Ryuo wouldn't see them cry.
---
After a long silence, Saki finally spoke, her voice tight:
> "When did you get this good at writing novels?"
Her eyes were still red, though they shone with surprise and curiosity.
The manuscript ended here — only half the full story.
Ryuo, pretending not to notice her emotional state, deflected the question with a small smile.
> "How do you two feel about this half of the novel?"
Mizuki stood, cheeks flushed with excitement, her beauty heightened by the emotion still lingering in her eyes.
> "Brother, this is amazing! It feels like something straight out of a youth literature magazine."
Saki's expression returned to her usual cool composure, though her words were warm:
> "If you submitted it to the right publisher, I think it could be accepted."
Then her curiosity returned, her tone softening.
> "I just wonder… how will the second half of Your Lie in April end? It will have a happy ending, right?"
Ryuo Tenshin only smiled faintly.
> "Don't worry, Saki. The ending will satisfy you."