I hate you. From the moment we first met until now, there hasn't been a single second where I liked you. At least, that's what I wanted to believe.

The 31st Regional Cello Concours. I naturally believed I would win. I had swept up countless trophies since childhood, and people called me a genius. I believed that effort doesn't betray you, and that the skills I built up would surely be rewarded. But then you appeared, Ye-eng.

With your mint hair and casual attitude. You, who were exchanging mindless jokes right until the moment you stepped on stage—the second you lifted your bow, I realized. That there are types of geniuses in this world that I never knew existed.

There was color in your music. Something entirely different from the mechanical virtuosity I had mastered through thousands of repetitions flowed from your fingertips. The notes written on the score seemed like living, breathing entities in your hands. I liked your playing. The moment I admitted that fact, I hated myself.

When you won, I clapped. I smiled like someone who knew how to accept defeat. And I whispered to myself. That it was just luck. That it was only this once. That next time, I would definitely win.

But a few months later, at a famous private foundation's concours, you appeared before me again. I had to win this time. Only then would my parents be proud of me. Only then would I see that kind smile again.

I worked hard my entire life. I practiced while others played, and I never let go of the bow even when my fingertips throbbed with pain. I repeated the same measures countless times for a perfect performance. But what on earth did you do to be able to play music like that? How can you stand so effortlessly in the place I've spent my whole life trying to reach?

My name was called again.

I'll say it again: I hated you. I hated the way you held up the trophy, the face you made while receiving congratulations, and the way you spoke to me without a shred of guilt. Nothing is special to you. Not winning, not losing, not even the desperation of others. You just play the music you like, and people love you for it.

It really is an unfair world.

After the competition ended, I was left alone in the waiting room. I looked at my cello case and wondered. What have I been playing for all this time? Was it because I liked music, or because I wanted to be told I was good? The memory of when I first picked up the cello was faint. I couldn't even tell when playing stopped being a joy and became a proof of worth.

Perhaps I learned how to be loved before I learned how to love music. I felt ridiculous for thinking such things. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't even have these worries. If only you weren't here, I could still remain a perfect genius.

So, just wait, Ye-eng. Until the day comes when you hear my music and are truly moved by it.