Disclaimer: I do not own Your Lie in April. This is a work of fanfiction for entertainment.
...
You approach your diagnosis like you do a particularly complicated piece of music.
With true Kaori flair, you ignore it altogether until it becomes absolutely, irrevocably necessary to "face the music," as it were.
Except you don't really face the arrangement as much as the notes hurtles into your soul and sets up shop in your consciousness like some of permanent, unwelcome tenant, forever bonded to your very essence like it was their home instead of yours.
Those black letters on the page, neatly typed, arranged in perfect, diatonic staffs. The measures in between are separated by white expanses of emptiness- your parents would call it "lost potential" late at night, when they think you're sleeping- but to you, when you finally gather enough courage to read this very last sheet of music, it's not so much an ending as it is a beginning.
Exactly of what, you don't really know, but then, isn't that what life is all about, this sense of balance, a sudden influx of noise punctuated by a forever kind of silence?
You think of your life as a symphony. A Mozart, perhaps, or even a Chopin or perhaps a Mendelssohn. Probably not a Vivaldi, because the very first concerto you learned to play is the Four Seasons and the metaphor hits a little too close to the heart right now. You like the symphony metaphor better, though it's more or less the same theme, though you, of course, ignore that parallel until the trembling of your hands makes it much too obvious to dismiss as some sort of cosmic fluke.
There are bar lines to your existence thus far, little commas in the long sentence you're writing with your music and your dreams. The decision to become a violinist, for one, or your somewhat unhealthy dedication to salted caramel cupcakes as opposed to red velvet.
There are double bar lines, too, periods in your life that clearly demarcate transition from old chapters to new. The letter you're holding, for example, tear-stained and crumpled, the thin glossy foil of yet another specialist your parents drove hours for you to see. You can see they're doing their best to call it a "road trip;" you're not blind to the faint sagging of shoulders everytime the doctor herds you outside the room, and it's definitely obvious when the nurses emtsk/em sympathetically every time they jab you with a needle for more tests.
You're so young, their eyes seemed to say, with so much potential.
But you see clearly in the things they don't don't say.
(There are bold double bar lines in your future, aren't there?)
Soon, too, judging by how your parents suddenly acquired an overwhelming love of everything you do.
Cupcakes. Glitter. Stickers.
-pink
-pink glitter
-pink glitter stickers on cupcakes
And you're not sure what to feel, except that you want to feel. You want to taste, to hear, to see, to smell, to create, to live, to love. You want drench this composition in color so that when it ends, you will end- you'll live on, too, like a permanent, welcome kind of guest in someone else's soul.
So you cross your fingers and you whisper the lie that serves as a bracket between your music and his.
