The clasps on the guitar case were rusted again, and I squatted in the corner of the room, carefully wiping the brown spots with a tissue. The sunlight outside the window streamed through a gap in the curtains, casting a long, narrow band of light on the floor, and dust motes floated lightly in the light, like my notes that could never quite land.
My phone screen lit up with a message from Nijika-chan, asking if I wanted to go half an hour early for band practice tomorrow to rehearse a new song.
My fingertip hovered above the screen for a long time before I slowly typed out "Okay" and, as the sent notification sounded, my heart suddenly began to pound.
I remembered something from junior high. That was the first time I plucked up the courage to take my guitar to school, wanting to join the music club. Standing at the entrance to the club room, I could hear lively laughter and instrument sounds from inside, but my feet felt like they were filled with lead, and I couldn't bring myself to step in.
In the end, I waited in the hallway until dark, only to sneak away with my guitar, and the body of the guitar accidentally bumped into the railing at the stairwell, leaving a shallow scratch.
From then on, my guitar became the most secret secret in my room. Every day after school, I would lock myself in my room and practice against the wall. My fingers developed calluses from the guitar strings, and sometimes pressing too hard would make beads of blood seep out, but I didn't dare tell anyone. Mama would ask me why I always locked the door, and I would just vaguely say I was doing homework.
Actually, I was writing songs, those melodies I didn't dare sing for others, I could only hum them softly to the air.
"You play terribly."
"What is that noise?"
"Don't waste your time, you have no musical talent."
These voices always swirled in my mind, especially when I wanted to try new techniques. My fingers would get tangled on the guitar strings, chords would change clumsily, and the waveform in the recording software would be crooked and twisted, like a struggling earthworm.
Every time I saw videos of guitarists playing fast and well online, I would immediately close the page, my heart shrinking into a ball, and even breathing became difficult.
Before that, I used to practice in the woods behind the school. Few people passed by there, only the rustling of wind through the leaves and the occasional bird call. I would hide my guitar in the bushes, sneak over during lunch break, and after playing for only a few minutes, I would be scared away by passing footsteps.
Once, while frantically packing up, my pick fell into a pile of fallen leaves, and I squatted on the ground searching for a long time, tears welling up. Why did even a tiny pick have to bully me?
Until that day, I was sitting under a tree, lost in thought with my guitar, when I suddenly heard footsteps behind me. I was so scared I almost threw the guitar away, turning to run, but the person called out to me.
"Your guitar looks like it has a lot of stories."
It was Okabara-san. He stood a few steps away, holding a notebook, his gaze gentle, without the kind of scrutiny and mockery I feared most. The sunlight filtered through the leaves onto him, as if coating him in a soft glow, which inexplicably made me relax a little.
I was too nervous to speak, only clinging tightly to my guitar, my fingers picking at the wood grain on the guitar neck.
He didn't come any closer, just stood there and said, "I just heard the melody you were playing, it's very special. Could you play a little more?"
My mind went blank, and I instinctively shook my head. Those melodies were too rough, too clumsy, how could I let anyone hear them?
"Is it because you're nervous?" He smiled, his tone relaxed. "When I first started playing an instrument, I also didn't dare to play in front of others. Actually, there's no need to be afraid. Music is meant to express yourself, and it's okay if it's not perfect."
He didn't negate my strange behavior of practicing in the woods, nor did he comment on my skill level, he just said "very special." This sentence was like a small stone, creating ripples in my heart.
Later, he would occasionally come to the woods to read, and when I played the guitar, he would sit quietly not far away. Sometimes I would play a wrong note, and I'd be so annoyed I wanted to hit a tree, but he would say, "That wrong note surprisingly has a lot of feeling. Perhaps you could try to incorporate it into the melody."
Once I got stuck on a fast scale, practicing it dozens of times without getting it right, my fingers stiff as wood. Okabara-san walked over, and instead of directly pointing out my mistake, he picked up a branch and drew a simple scale diagram on the ground: "Try to focus your attention on your wrist, not your fingers. Imagine your wrist is leading your fingers in a dance, rather than fighting."
I tried his method, and my fingertips suddenly became agile. When the fluid notes finally flowed from the guitar strings, I looked up in surprise and saw the encouragement in his eyes: "See, you can do it. Your fingers are very flexible, you're just too nervous."
"B-but I still play very slowly…" I whispered, my voice as soft as a mosquito's buzz.
"Speed isn't important, emotion is," he pointed at my guitar. "Look at this guitar, its body has many scratches, doesn't it? Each scratch hides a story, just as your notes hide your feelings. This isn't a flaw, it's your unique mark."
On the way home that day, for the first time, I didn't hide my guitar under my clothes, but carried it openly on my back. Although I still cared about the glances of passersby, my mind was no longer filled with those negative voices, but with Okabara-san's words: "unique mark."
Now I'm sitting in the band practice room, and Nijika-chan and Kita-chan are discussing the arrangement of the new song. They said they want me to do a guitar solo, and I almost fell off my chair when I heard that.
"I, I can't…" The familiar tension surged up again, and my fingers started to tremble.
"Just try it, Bocchi-chan!" Nijika-chan patted my shoulder, her eyes sparkling. "You've made such obvious progress lately!"
I looked down at my guitar, the scratches on the neck clearly visible in the light. Suddenly remembering Okabara-san's words, I took a deep breath and slowly strummed the strings. When the first note sounded, I was still very nervous, but as the melody flowed, that tension gradually disappeared.
Although I still played wrong notes, although my fingers still stiffened, although I still dared not look people in the eye, I didn't stop. Because I knew that my music held my story, and even if it wasn't perfect, it was worth being heard.
After practice, I walked out of the activity room with my guitar and saw Okabara-san waiting for me at the end of the hallway. He smiled and asked, "That solo was great just now, is it something new you've been practicing?"
My cheeks flushed, and I nodded, whispering, "Th-thank you… I can do even better."
After saying that, I was stunned myself. This was the first time I hadn't negated myself, the first time I dared to say something like that.
The smile in Okabara-san's eyes deepened, and he handed me a new pick: "I knew you could do it. Next time, try that string-skipping technique, I believe you can master it."
I gripped the pick in my hand, feeling the warmth of the plastic on my fingertips. The setting sun streamed through the window, stretching our shadows long.
I looked at my own shadow, it seemed a little taller than before. Perhaps, I really can slowly get better, slowly become less afraid, slowly let my guitar sound be heard by more people.
The clasps on the guitar case were still a bit rusty, but I no longer thought of them as ugly flaws. Just as Okabara-san said, these are my unique marks, proof that I stumbled and struggled on my musical journey but never gave up.
Next time, I want to try playing a complete song of my own in front of everyone.