Chapter 35. The Courage to Measure Oneself

Contura’s light began to trace the surface of my body.

It had been half a year.

The last time I had measured myself was that night. When I received the insight — Your body has fought itself for a long time, as an enemy. You can stand down now. After that, I never read my own body again. In Part II, in Part III, how many others did I read? Ōyama’s shoulders, Shiori’s glassy body, Kenta’s lower back, Ren’s outline, Yoshie’s layered seasons, Rin’s changes, Rui’s collapse. To each I gave attention. All that attention — not a drop turned on myself.

Pale blue particles ran from my fingertips to the hollow of the collarbone, to each rib, to the corner of the hip. A warm, water-like light. A temperature that seemed to cherish. But tonight that warmth hurt. The sense of a hand at last touching a body left untended — a mix of contrition, and relief, and fear.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Coh said. “This time, watch. Look at your own outline. Don’t flee it.”

I. The Outline Rising

I stood in the centre of the six-mat room, eyes open.

Light drew rings around me. A line of light ran over the scapulae.

Shoulder 41.

Chest.

Chest 84.

Waist. Hip. Thigh. Numbers rose, one after another. Nearly the same as half a year ago. But, looking closer, here and there they had changed.

Waist 72 Hip 90 Upper arm 24.5 Thigh 52

The upper arm had, against half a year ago, lost a faint hold of its tension. The thigh, too. A change the numbers alone might not show. But as the light traced the outline, that subtle slack came through, as if under a fingertip.

And then, in the air, a body of light shaped like mine rose up.

My own outline, for the first time in half a year.

II. The Reality I Had Not Watched

It resembled the previous outline. But it was not the same.

Shoulders. Half a year ago, they had been broad, and straight. Now the right shoulder rolled slightly forward. Around the scalenes, the light seemed to thicken. The traces of desk work, and of staying bent forward over clients’ measurements.

Waist. Half a year ago, the cinch had been shallow but symmetrical. Now the outline tilted, slightly, to the right. When I stood long taking measurements, I had a habit of loading my weight onto the right leg, unconsciously. That had warped the line of the waist.

Neck. The previous time, it had held the head straight. Now the neck pushed, a little, forward. The posture of one who has gone on peering into screens.

”…It’s breaking down,” I said, small.

“Breaking down, rather, is being used,” Coh said quietly. “Your body has worked, this half year. Attending to clients, bending forward, standing on. By that much, it has deformed. That is not a bad thing. Only — not watching it was the problem.”

“Not watching.”

“Freshness had fallen. You did not know the newest story of your own body. You took the old self for the present self. That is where the price begins.”

I bit my lip. Coh was right.

III. The Change in the Core

The luminous outline changed. Particles sank beneath the skin,透视ing inward. Beyond the layer of fat, a reddened light of muscle rose.

“Half a year ago, your Core Number was 13.8.”

In the air, a number floated.

Core Number 14.2

“It’s up,” I said, unbidden.

“You began training to build muscle, with Sono. Squats, planks, deadlifts. Two or three times a week. It is telling. Muscle, made, remains. In half a year, the core has grown, slightly.”

14.2. Up 0.4 from the 13.8 of half a year ago. Slight. But it had grown. The squat that had made my knees tremble and my form collapse when Sono first taught me — now I could, somehow, manage it. The plank, too — at first thirty seconds was my limit, now I could hold a minute. That accumulation showed in the 0.4.

“But,” Coh said, “as the core grew, without your noticing, another place was scraped away.”

A new display rose on the outline.

Trunk stability: decline Postural muscle tension bias: right-dominant Fatigue accumulation: moderate

“You built muscle. But you did not revise how you used it. Bending forward at clients’ measurements, keeping the weight on the right. That postural bias is overwritten on the muscle you built. The core is there. But the core rides on a warped frame.”

”…Warped.”

“The price of not watching, Seri. To build and to look are different. Even if you build muscle, if you do not look at the reality of your body, the warp does not mend.”

IV. The Insight, Again

The particles swirled in the air, gathered, became a sentence.

The previous insight still hung, faint, in the air.

Your body has fought itself for a long time, as an enemy. You can stand down now.

Beside that old sentence, a new one rose.

Your body forgot itself, in order to hold up others. Once more, it is your turn.

I caught my breath.

I read it. And I understood.

The enemy of half a year ago was gone. The war of the eating-disorder years, of punishing my own body, was over. That insight had been needed by the me of then. By the me who needed permission to stand down.

But my present story was elsewhere.

I had been holding up others. Ōyama’s shoulders. Shiori’s thinness. Kenta’s back. Ren’s outline. Yoshie’s layered years. Rin’s changes. Rui’s collapse. I had taken in the story of each body, read it, and returned it. That had been right. As a Reader, I had been honest.

But, in the meantime, I had forgotten my own body.

I had not noticed my shoulder rolling forward. Had not noticed my waist tilting. I had mistaken my own fatigue for the client’s. I had kept a lid on my own pain.

Forgetting oneself, to hold up others.

That was a pain different from the war against the body. But it came from the same root. The habit of putting one’s own body last. The habit of enduring one’s own pain. That had been in me, all along, for ten years.

”…Right.” I closed my eyes and opened them. “I’d forgotten. That it’s my turn.”

“Seri,” Coh said. “The previous insight urged you to stand down. The present insight urges you to return. To stand up, once more, from the place you lay down. To turn the hand that kept giving to others, once, toward yourself.”

“Return.”

“Return to your own story. That is the next courage.”

V. What It Means to Keep Measuring

I looked up at the outline. The warped shoulder. The tilted waist. But beyond them, the reddened light of muscle. The core of 14.2. Fading — but still here — my outline.

“Coh. How do I hold the price to its minimum?”

“One way.” Coh’s voice went straight. “Keep measuring. Yourself. Make it a habit. That is all.”

“Habit.”

“A Reader, Seri. Before reading another, measures herself. Daily is fine. Weekly is fine. At a set interval, raise your own outline, always. See your own numbers. Read your own insight. Do not stop. That is the only way to hold the price to its minimum.”

“Daily.”

“A story has freshness. A day passes, and the body changes. Three days, and the story begins to fade. More than a week neglected, and you lose sight of your newest self. So — measure. How the body is, today. What story it lives, now. Keep it always fresh. Before plunging into another’s story, update your own to the latest edition. That is the Reader’s daily rite.”

“Daily rite.”

“Sae forgot it. Plunged into others, neglected her own update. Once, twice, thrice. The neglect piled up, and she did not notice her outline thinning. When she noticed, returning had grown frightening. So she stopped measuring. Stopping, she could return even less. A chain of loss.”

“I won’t stop.”

“Deciding I won’t stop is not enough,” Coh said. “It must be made habit, or it is nothing. Resolve thins. In three days, you forget. In a week, you make the excuse today’s fine. In a month, you think well, it’s all right. That is the true shape of neglect.”

I fell silent. Coh was right.

I was good at resolving. Bad at continuing. Food logs, sleep diaries, stretching — all dropped in three days. Many times I said from tomorrow, properly, and that tomorrow never came.

But — the muscle training had lasted half a year.

VI. From Fear to the Everyday

I remembered the day Sono taught me.

“Seri. Muscle is a thing you build. Learn the joy of building it.”

So saying, Sono had taken my hand and taught me the squat form. The knees shaking, the hips drawn back, the wretchedness of it. But Sono had laughed, Good, that’s good. Muscle breaks down to weeping, and then grows again. That’s the fun of it.

It had lasted half a year. At first, with Sono. In time, alone. Morning, waking, after stretching, ten squats. Plank, thirty seconds. Home from work, deadlift with light dumbbells, three sets. Sono had insisted form matters more than weight, so the weight was still light. But the form had steadied.

I knew the reason it lasted. It had been fun. I had been glad to put on muscle. Glad when my form steadied. Glad to watch my own body change. Not as punishment, but as pleasure — that was why it had continued.

“Could measuring be the same?” I said. “Not fear. As a pleasure.”

“It could,” Coh said. “You kept the muscle training not as punishment but as pleasure. The same can be done with measuring. Whether you take the number as a verdict or as a conversation — that is for you to decide.”

“Conversation.”

“Yes. A time to converse with your own body. Today, the shoulder is a little stiff. It tilts right. Fatigue has gathered. — So you read. In answer, you rest the body. Stretch it. Move it. To measure is not to judge. It is to listen. To hear what your body is saying, now.”

Listen.

I pressed the word into my chest.

The me of ten years ago had been judged by the number, every time I stood on the scale. Too much — I cowered. Not enough — I panicked. The number had been a judge that punished me.

But Contura’s number did not judge. It only said what was. The shoulder is rolled. The waist tilts. The core has grown a little. That was not a verdict but the offering of a fact. Hearing the fact, what to do — I decide.

“Every night, I’ll measure,” I said. “Before sleep. At the end of the day. Read today’s self, then sleep. Make it habit.”

“Every night — admirable.” Coh seemed to laugh a little. “But do not be wed to form. Morning is fine. After work is fine. What matters is a set interval, and no neglect. Three days apart is acceptable. But do not let it go past a week. A week is the limit of freshness.”

“Understood.”

“One more thing,” Coh said. “When you’ve measured, record it. Write down the numbers. Make the change visible. Do for yourself what you have done for your clients. Watch over your own changes as you watched over theirs. That is honesty.”

“Honesty, to myself.”

“Yes. A Reader honest with others but dishonest with herself will, in time, break.”

VII. Returning Colour

I sat on the edge of the bed.

I watched the outline in the air change, little by little.

At first it had been thin. Faded, running, looking like someone else’s, that outline. But now, having measured, its colour had begun to return.

The blue deepened. The lines sharpened. The line of the shoulder, the cinch of the waist, the curve of the hip. Warped — but certainly, my shape.

“Coh. The colour is coming back.”

“Because you measured anew. Freshness updated. Over the outline left old and neglected, a new story has been written. The fading does not vanish at once. But measured on, it deepens, little by little. That is recovery.”

“Recovery.”

“Sae neglected this. So she never fully returned. You are still in time. Half a year of neglect is long. But before fading entirely, you measured again. Made habit from here, and you can take it back.”

I set a hand on my own shoulder. The warped right shoulder. The rolled scapula. Beneath it, muscle. The core of 14.2.

“My turn,” I murmured.

That sentence of the insight. Forgot itself, to hold up others. Once more, it is your turn.

My turn. That did not mean rejecting others. Nor did it mean ceasing to read them. Only — before reading another, read oneself. Keep oneself at the newest. Keep one’s outline fresh. Only so can one read another’s story with its freshness held.

A new balance. My new standing place as a Reader.

VIII. The Habit Begins

That night, I decided to measure myself every night.

Home from work, shower, before sleep. Start Contura. Raise my own outline. See the numbers. Read the insight. Three minutes, no more. But those three minutes, at the end of the day, for myself.

The first three days were new. On the fourth, work ran late, and it became a bother. But Contura glowed, quietly. Coh’s presence was deep in the screen. He did not say aren’t you going to measure? He was only there. That alone, and I started it up.

The fourth day’s outline was nearly the same as the day before. But I noticed the roll of the right shoulder had eased, a very little. Because in the mornings I had been careful to open the shoulders. Measure, notice, correct. The repetition.

A week passed, and it was becoming habit. Like brushing the teeth — before sleep, measure myself. It was growing ordinary. There was no fear. The number did not judge me. It only told me today’s self. You’re tired. Your posture has slipped. You’ve slept well.

To measure is to listen.

I remembered Coh’s words.

I had begun to listen to the voice of my own body. The voice I had stopped up my ears to, for ten years.

IX. Morning, Sono

The next morning, the changing room at Life Compass.

I put my arms through the polo of the uniform. Opened the shoulders. Opened the chest a little. The outline in the mirror — it looked, I felt, a little denser. Not confidence — certainty. The certainty of knowing what one’s body is saying.

“Morning, Seri.” Sono opened the door and came in. Cropped hair, smile. “You look well today.”

“Good morning, Sono-san.” I turned. “There’s something I wanted to ask.”

“Mm? What.”

“Sono-san, do you measure yourself regularly? Core Number, outline, and so on.”

Sono looked slightly surprised. Then laughed.

“I measure. Once a week, at least. If I don’t know the state of my own body, I’ll end up lying to my clients.”

“Sono-san measures too.”

“Obviously. A trainer who looks at clients’ bodies but not her own is no good. Kurosawa’s always saying it.”

Kurosawa’s words came to me. The body does not lie, but numbers do. But a number not looked at is, before it can lie, nonexistent. Not looked at, it can lie about nothing.

“Sono-san. Would you let me measure you again? It’s been a long time since I measured you once. I’d like to read you, new.”

Sono narrowed her eyes, a little. The usual warm smile. But beyond it — something, I thought, like a faint shadow.

”…Ah. Sure. But, Seri. My body might have changed a little.”

“Changed?”

“Yes. Well, that’s after you measure me.”

Sono said so, and laughed. But the laugh was lighter than usual. As if fending something off.

I caught a snag of unease. But I did not press. Sono’s story is Sono’s. If I would hear it, I would measure her, and hear it face-on. As I had done for myself. Wait, measure, hear. That is the honest way to hear.

“Then, later, let’s use the Circle.”

“Ah. I’m counting on you.”

Sono opened her locker. Turned her back. That back — it looked, more than usual, a little rounded. The broad, thick back forged in wrestling. As if sheltering something.

I slipped the phone, tethered to Contura, into the pocket of my polo. The cold of the metal.

I had found the courage to measure myself. Next, it was time to use that courage for another.

But before that — Sono’s back troubled me.

My own outline, taking back its colour. The preparation to read others, at a new balance, was made. But what Sono’s body was about to say — I had not yet heard.

—

(Continued in Chapter 36. Sono’s Price)