The guitar case brushed against the hallway wall, making a rustling sound. I walked quickly with my head down, my school uniform skirt almost sweeping the floor, my fingers unconsciously picking at my school bag strap.
Every time I passed the crowded stairwell, my heart would tighten as if squeezed, and I could only stare at my worn, pale shoelaces, pretending that the laughter around me had nothing to do with me.
The music room door was ajar, and the sound of other bands rehearsing came from inside. I stood outside the door, hesitating for three minutes, until everyone in the hallway was gone, then I snuck in like a thief and quickly locked the door.
In the empty classroom, only I and the dusty old speaker in the corner remained. Tiny dust motes floated in the air, dancing gently in the setting sun.
My fingertips always trembled when I took the guitar out of its case. The guitar was covered with worn stickers; they were my only source of courage.
Three years ago, when I first picked up a guitar, Mama said, "Hitori-chan is so shy, maybe music can be your friend." But this guitar didn't become my friend; instead, it was like a mirror, constantly reminding me of my clumsiness.
In junior high, I plucked up the courage to audition for the school festival. The moment my fingers touched the guitar strings, they froze. Whispers came from the audience; some said, "Is she trembling?", others laughed, "She can't even press a chord properly and wants to go on stage."
I rushed out of the auditorium as if fleeing, hiding behind the teaching building and crying for two whole hours, my guitar case soaked with tears.
From then on, I never dared to play the guitar in front of others again. I could only secretly practice in my room late at night after my family was asleep, hiding all my emotions in the guitar strings.
I read online band recruitment information countless times, deleting and revising the text in the dialogue box, but I could never press the send button.
They wanted a guitarist who could shine on stage, and I was just a good-for-nothing who had to practice for half a day just to talk to a store clerk.
My phone album was full of practice videos, but I never dared to show them to anyone. Those broken melodies and trembling fingertips were all my secrets.
One day before the culture festival, I was practicing with my guitar behind the school, my fingers making frequent mistakes due to nervousness. The melody of "Seisyun Complex" was fragmented by my playing, and tears, against my will, fell onto the guitar.
Just then, a soft footsteps sounded behind me. I was so startled I almost dropped the guitar, and I quickly turned to hide, but I ran into a pair of calm eyes.
It was Okabara-san. He was standing not far away, still holding an unfinished taiyaki, looking a little surprised. My mind went blank instantly, and I could only cling to my guitar, like a startled hedgehog.
"S-sorry! I'll leave right away!" My voice was trembling uncontrollably, and tears were already welling up in my eyes.
But he shook his head and said softly, "You don't have to go, I was just passing by. You play the guitar well."
"N-no, I don't!" I subconsciously retorted, my cheeks so hot they could fry an egg. "It's all wrong notes… and it's really, really bad…"
"What's bad about it?" He walked up to me, his tone so sincere it left me flustered. "The rhythm is steady, and the emotion is full. Although some parts need improvement, I can tell you're playing with great dedication."
I stared at him blankly, momentarily forgetting what to say. No one had ever commented on my guitar playing like that before; they either ignored it, mocked it, or gave perfunctory encouragement. But Okabara-san's eyes were serious, without the slightest hint of mockery or pity.
"Th-this… the string always slips here." Against my will, I pointed to the third fret of the guitar, my voice as small as a mosquito's buzz. As soon as I said it, I regretted it. He must think I'm a bother.
To my surprise, he squatted down and patiently said, "Try pressing the string with your fingertip, a little harder, relax your wrist… Yes, just like that."
His finger gently touched my wrist, helping me adjust my posture. The warmth of his fingertip came through my school uniform, unexpectedly comforting.
That afternoon, he listened to me play the entire song "Seisyun Complex" without interrupting or rushing me. The setting sun stretched our shadows long, and the vibration of the guitar strings seemed to reach my heart.
"You're very talented," he said seriously, looking into my eyes. "You just lack a little confidence. The most important thing in music is to express yourself. Technique can be practiced slowly, but genuine emotion is the rarest."
On the stage of the culture festival, when the spotlight hit me, my mind went blank again.
But seeing Okabara-san's encouraging eyes in the audience and remembering what he had said, I took a deep breath, and the moment my fingertips landed on the guitar strings, they surprisingly didn't tremble.
The melody of "Seisyun Complex" echoed in the auditorium. Although there were still some minor flaws, it was the most heartfelt I had ever played.
After the performance, he walked over smiling and said, "You've improved a lot, much better than last time in the mountains." I was too nervous to speak, so I could only hand him the guitar pick I had prepared. It was my most treasured cherry blossom patterned pick.
Even now, I still get nervous when there are many people, I still practice conversations in my head beforehand, and I'm still the clumsy Hitori Bocchi.
But when I hold my guitar, the unease in my heart seems to lessen. The string-pressing technique Okabara-san taught me is becoming more and more skilled. Occasionally, when we meet in the hallway, he'll smile and ask, "What new songs have you been practicing lately?", and although I still blush, I can softly say the song title now.
Outside the music room window, the evening glow dyed the sky red. I held my guitar, my fingertips gently plucking the strings, and the melody of "Seisyun Complex" flowed smoothly.
This time, there was no trembling, no pausing, only the vibration of the strings and the faint glimmer quietly sprouting in my heart.
Perhaps, I can slowly become less afraid, and perhaps, my guitar can truly become a bridge connecting me to the world.
The cherry blossom pick in my guitar case has been replaced with a new one, but I've always kept the old pick that Okabara-san praised carefully in my pocket. It's my small proof of courage.