From the very first day of my hospitalization, my body felt unwell and I developed a fever.
Each time they took my temperature, it climbed higher — 37°C, then 38°C.

I was told, “If this continues, the surgery may have to be postponed.”

In preparation for the surgery scheduled two days later, I had already started taking laxatives, but I also had to undergo additional examinations, including an X-ray. It was a different kind of pressure, and I was quite tense (I was truly relieved that I didn’t feel the urge to go during the test).

I was also tested for influenza and COVID, but both came back negative. As night fell without any clear explanation, my fever rose above 39°C, and it turned into a very difficult night.

At one point they administered a fever reducer through an IV, which helped greatly, though the underlying cause remained unresolved.

The next day, the fever still had not gone down. My doctor said, “Let’s cancel the surgery for now,” and I was discharged temporarily. I will return to the hospital next week to reschedule the operation.

Personally, I felt quite confused as I imagined rearranging work schedules and sending a number of messages to people. But there was nothing to be done. Surgery performed during a fever apparently carries a higher risk of complications. The body must be taken care of.

Yet, somewhere inside, I also felt relieved. Even if it was only a temporary discharge, I wondered if perhaps I had simply wanted to stop here once, to pause for a moment.

In fact, once I returned home, my body quickly began to feel better, and the fever steadily subsided.

It wasn’t that I wanted to avoid the surgery, nor that I wished to run away from it. I probably just wanted a little more time — just a little longer. That night I didn’t sleep very well, but without the pressure, my mind remained calm.

Then, suddenly, I thought, “I should get that guitar after all.”

A few days before entering the hospital, I had visited a music shop and asked a staff member about a model that had caught my attention. They told me they would contact me if one arrived.

I assumed it would be some time before I heard anything, but unexpectedly, the message came on the very first day of my hospitalization.

Since I obviously couldn’t go see it until after leaving the hospital, I replied and explained my situation. The staff member responded, “In that case…” and kindly offered to hold it for me so that I could try it.

It wasn’t that I had already decided to buy the guitar. I had simply seen a photo online, grown curious, and thought I would like to see the real instrument if the chance came.

Because the timing suddenly moved forward, it felt as though the guitar itself had come a little closer to me — perhaps even calling me. Something inside me seemed to switch on.

Tomorrow, I plan to go try the guitar. Whether I buy it or not will depend on how it feels in my hands when I see it, touch it, and play it. For now, I honestly don’t know.

At this point my mind feels very flat and calm. Whether I buy it or not no longer seems like such an important question.

So even if this sense of “meeting the guitar” is nothing more than my imagination — or if it isn’t — either way is fine.

What I probably wanted most was something like this: a little space.