Three O'Clock Embrace

Dedicated to Yomogi-san

　Confidence is something you find yourself dropping somewhere before you even realize it.

　On the way home from a meeting that didn't go well, my reflection in a shop window looked incredibly weak. Even though no one had yelled at me, a voice deep in my chest kept accusing me, saying, "It's still not enough."

　At times like that, I remember a certain afternoon.

　The elementary school gymnasium, where winter light slanted in. The second-grade music recital. It was the day we had been told over and over that the curtain would rise at exactly 3:00 PM.

　Back then, I was the most unstable recorder player in the class.

　I was stopped every time we practiced.

"That's an A. One more time."

　I knew it. In my head, I did. But my fingers wouldn't listen. The high notes would crack, and the low notes would sound raspy.

　Kenta the Centaur, who sat next to me, whispered,

"Hey, your notes are kind of all over the place."

　I don't know why he was called "Centaur." Maybe because he was incredibly fast at running, or maybe because he was unnecessarily full of confidence; regardless, that's what he was called.

"I am doing it right."

　I retorted before I could stop myself.

"I'm not angry. I just want us all to be in sync."

　"All of us."

Those words left a rough feeling in my chest. I felt as if I were the only one on the outside.

Things weren't going well at home, either.

In the evening, when I was practicing next to my mother as she stirred a pot in the kitchen, she told me, "I'm on the phone right now, so please be quiet for a moment." It wasn't a reprimand. It was just bad timing.

Even so, holding my recorder, I suddenly felt angry.

My sound is just noise to everyone anyway, isn't it?

Such thorns kept multiplying deep inside my chest.

The day of the performance. The murmur from beyond the curtain swayed like waves. The teacher said,

"Even if you make a mistake, don't stop. It's important to finish to the end."

I felt a little saved by those words. But at the same time, I felt irritated.

Are you assuming I'm going to make a mistake anyway?

The prelude began. My heart was beating far too loudly.

As expected, my first note cracked.

The air in the gymnasium caught for a moment. I sensed someone moving in the back. I felt like I was being laughed at. Maybe that wasn't actually the case. But it certainly reached my ears.

In that instant, something inside me snapped.

That's enough.

I'm done cowering in an attempt to do this perfectly.

If I'm going to miss the note anyway, I'll do it with confidence.

I took a deep breath. The cold air pierced deep into my lungs.

I blew the next note with all my might.

It wasn't pretty. But it was clear.

Centaur Kenta glances over. His eyes are half-astonished, half-surprised.

The music flows on. Within the line of sound from the class, only my notes are a bit jagged. Still, I don't stop. Even if my fingers slip, even if the sound is muddy, I go to the end.

Halfway through, I missed a note spectacularly again. My face feels hot. But I didn't look down anymore.

I played until the very last note.

Applause rings out.

When I returned to the wings of the stage, Centaur Kenta grinned.

"That high part earlier, you were incredibly bold."

"I just stopped caring."

"Haha. Well, it's amazing you didn't stop."

With those words, the roughness deep in my chest melted a little.

The teacher called me over, too.

"Your tone is still a work in progress. But it's commendable that you finished it to the end."

There were warnings, too. We talked about the overall balance. Even so, the words "you finished it" remained.

It was just past 3:00 PM when I left the gymnasium.

The winter light is soft. My mother is waiting at the entrance.

The moment she saw my face, she hugged me without saying a word.

"You did your best."

That was all.

It wasn't about whether I did well. It wasn't about whether it was perfect. It was clumsy, and perhaps I caused a bit of trouble. But I didn't run away on that stage.

I was embraced, along with all of that.

Along with the three o'clock light.

Perhaps that was my first taste of self-confidence.

Confidence isn't about never failing.

It's about not giving up on yourself even when you do fail.

Even now that I'm an adult, there are days when things don't go well. There are days when I feel like I've fallen out of the circle of "everyone," and my heart feels rough again.

At times like that, I remember that three o'clock afternoon.

Myself, playing with my head held high, even while hitting the wrong notes.

Kenta the Centaur, who grinned at me.

And the warmth of the arms that held me without saying a word.

That embrace still lingers on my back even now.

That's why, even today, I can feel that it's okay to hit a few wrong notes.

I can take a deep breath and think about playing once more.