Your Lie in April 2016

Fourteen-year-old piano prodigy Kousei Arima rises to fame after winning a string of national competitions, their notes echoing through concert halls and earning him praise from teachers and audiences alike. His ascent is abruptly halted when his mother, Saki Arima, dies, and a devastating breakdown occurs during a recital. In the aftermath, he discovers he has lost the ability to hear the sound of the piano, seeing the notes float off the page and feeling only the heavy thud of the keys as he plays, even though his ears remain perfectly fine. The world around him seems colorless and distant, and the music that once defined him becomes a riddle he can’t solve.

Two years drift by, and Kousei has withdrawn from the joys of music as if a gray veil has settled over his senses. He wanders through life with his friends Tsubaki Sawabe and Ryouta Watari, going through motions without anchoring himself to any ambition. Then a chance encounter shatters the numbness: Kaori Miyazono, a fearless, free-spirited fourteen-year-old violinist, steps into his world with a burst of color and a violin bow that seems to rewrite the rules of performance. Her playing is unrestrained and improvisational, a stark contrast to the rigid discipline that once defined Kousei. Through her, he begins to glimpse a different way of making music—one that is expressive, daring, and true to the moment. As Kaori’s optimism needle-shifts his mood, Kousei starts to realize that he is falling in love, even as Kaori appears to be more drawn to Ryouta than to him.

During a concert sequence, Kaori collapses and is rushed to the hospital, where her illness—anemia—places new limits on her future. She invites Kousei to perform with her at a gala, but she does not arrive, and her health takes a turn for the worse. Dealing with fear and frustration, Kaori’s spirit endures through music, culminating in a duet between Kousei and a friend that rekindles her resolve to seize every possible moment. That surge of courage leads her to undertake a risky surgery in the hope of playing with him again, even as the odds remain daunting.

The climax unfolds during the finals of the Eastern Japan Piano Competition, where Kousei, guided by Kaori’s intangible presence, plays with a depth he never imagined possible. He senses Kaori’s presence beside him as the music swells, only to learn that she has passed away during the operation. The loss is profound, yet her memory becomes a lasting chord in his life.

In the emotional aftermath, Kaori’s parents deliver a letter she left for Kousei. The note reveals that she had known her death was near and chose a path of greater freedom in both her personality and her music so that she would not carry regrets to Heaven. She confesses that her love for his piano playing began when she was five, watching him perform at a concert, a spark that inspired her to take up the violin with the hope of someday playing alongside him. She explains that she had pretended to harbor feelings for Ryōta to draw closer to Kousei without hurting Tsubaki, who cared deeply for him. Tsubaki offers quiet comfort, promising to stand by his side, while a photograph—of Kaori as a child returning from the concert that sparked her—serves as a bittersweet keepsake. Kousei frames that image, a physical reminder of the hesitant, hopeful path that music and love can take when life is fragile and time is precious.

In essence, the film traces a boy’s painful journey from a locked-in sorrow to a broader, more fearless engagement with life and art, driven by a luminous, impulsive violinist who teaches him that music is not merely technique but a language for expressing what cannot be spoken. Amid beauty and heartbreak, the story meditates on memory, regret, and the ways love can illuminate even the deepest shadows, leaving a resonant echo that lingers long after the final note.