Chapter 38. Two Outlines

Rui set foot in the Circle again four days after the last, in the evening.

The footsteps down the stairs were slower than before. Between each step, a hesitating pause. The measuring room beneath Life Compass, lit white by fluorescent light, was quiet as always. Measures and towels lined the rack at the wall. The empty space at the centre.

I was waiting at the mouth of the Circle.

”…I’ve come.”

Rui Takatsuji stopped at the entrance. The silver-rimmed smart-glasses were off. I heard later that one lens had cracked when she fell, and she had not put them on since. The bare face looked a little young. The hollows under the eyes were faintly lighter than before.

“Welcome,” I said. “How are you.”

”…Alive.”

“That’s enough.”

Rui let out a small breath. A half-breath, as if she had tried to laugh and failed.

“Today,” she said. “I thought I would try, what you said.”

“What I said.”

“You said my body was armor of number. That you would return what lay beneath the armor. I — thought I would look at it, once, properly.”

I nodded. My heart beat, a little. I knew — this person is truly trying to change.

“However,” Rui went on. “One condition.”

“What.”

“Measure yourself, too. The same as me. In the same place, at the same time. Raise your own outline beside mine.”

I held my breath. A question I had not expected.

“Me, too.”

“You’re always reading other people’s bodies. But you don’t show your own to anyone, do you.” Rui’s voice was still hard. But beneath it, there was the heat of carefully chosen words. “If it’s to be equal — show yours. If I look at my outline, you look at yours, beside me.”

In my pocket, Coh grew faintly warm. Agreement, or urging.

”…Understood.”

I noticed my voice shook, a little. I had grown used, somewhat, to reading others’ bodies. But showing my own — I was not used to that. To bare number, outline, story to someone. Within the bounds of the Laws, that was a thing done only for the closest.

But if this person had come here carrying the same pain — it was my turn to show.

II

We stood side by side at the centre of the Circle.

About a metre apart. Rui on the right. Me on the left. Not facing each other — facing the same way. Toward the space ahead that was neither mirror nor wall, only air. We stared at it, together.

“Coh.” I spoke to the phone in my pocket. “Can you measure two at once.”

“I can.” Coh’s voice came from deep in my head. “Only — Seri. This is the first time you’ve shown your outline to anyone.”

“Yes.”

“Is it frightening.”

”…It is.”

“Good. I won’t say don’t be afraid. Only — don’t forget. Your story is yours. Whether to show it is for you to decide. You’ve decided, now.”

“I’ve decided.”

“Then let’s begin.”

Coh’s light seeped from the screen. Pale blue particles dissolved into the air of the Circle. The light that usually circled one body now took in two, at once.

It drew rings.

Over my shoulder, my chest, my waist, my hip, my thigh. And, beside me, over Rui’s shoulder, chest, waist, hip, thigh. Two bodies, traced by a double outline, at once.

Numbers floated.

In the air, white glowing numbers rose in two columns. Left, me. Right, Rui.

Shoulder 41 Shoulder 40 Chest 84 Chest 79 Waist 72 Waist 62 Hip 90 Hip 84

I looked at the two columns.

On the numbers alone, they might have looked close. The shoulder breadth nearly the same. But when the numbers joined into outlines, the two bodies rose as utterly different forms.

III

Mine took shape first.

A pale blue body of light rose in the air. The shoulders broad. The spring of the collarbone firm. The cinch from chest to waist shallow. The line from waist to hip curving gently, but certainly. The lower body, from thigh to shin, with a solid thickness.

This was my body. The body I had, little by little, rebuilt since I entered the trainer’s path three years ago. The body that in the eating-disorder years had wasted, lost muscle, been bone and skin — onto it I had, once more, set flesh, threaded sinew, seated the core. It was not finished. It was in progress. But the time accumulated was, certainly, carved into this outline.

Coh spoke quietly.

“Seri. Your type leans mesomorph. The skeleton is solid. The muscle rides above average. The cinch is shallow because the body fat is still evenly laid — and that is not a bad thing. Your body is, honestly, in the middle of being rebuilt.”

”…Yes.”

I looked up at my own outline. I was not ashamed. Only, to be honest about it was, a little, painful. Because someone would know how much battle stood under this body.

And I looked beside.

Rui’s outline had risen.

Tall. A full head taller than I. Thin. The shoulder breadth nearly the same as mine, yet the neck long, the collarbones standing out thin and sharp. The cinch from chest to waist, deep. The line from waist to hip, smooth, straight and slender as a young shoot. The lower body, long, stretching up. Overall, a lack of tension. The surface of the luminous outline looked faintly faded. A sign of fallen freshness.

“Takatsuji-san,” Coh said. “Your type is ectomorph. The bones fine, long. The muscle, for your height, is quite little. The body fat, too low. Your body has kept a number-managed thinness — but as the price, it has faded. Freshness is down.”

Rui looked up at her own outline. Her expression did not move. But once, her lips pressed, hard.

”…This is my body.”

“Yes.”

“Weaker than yours.”

“Not weaker.” Coh denied it, quietly. “Different.”

IV

The two outlines shone, side by side.

On the left, me. Broad-shouldered, shallow-cinched, sturdy-legged, a body leaning mesomorph. A body of honest accumulation, in the middle of rebuilding its core.

On the right, Rui. Tall, slender, bones prominent, faded, ectomorphic. A body forged by number, now paying its price.

The forms were utterly different. But both were, certainly, the forms of human bodies. Neither was warped. Neither was broken. Only — different lives, different choices, different times, become form.

Coh spoke.

“Seri. Takatsuji-san. Looking at the two outlines together — do you notice anything.”

I thought.

”…That they’re different.”

“Only that.”

”…Different — but both, human bodies.”

“Yes.” Coh’s voice softened a little. “There is not one correct body. Seri’s body is the form of Seri’s story. Takatsuji-san’s body is the form of Takatsuji-san’s story. Neither is superior. Neither inferior. Only, different lives took different forms. That is all.”

Rui looked from her own outline to mine, and back.

”…I always thought my body was the right one.” Her voice was low. “Because the numbers were perfect. Because it was thinner, more ordered, than anyone else’s. I thought that was the correct body.”

“There is no correct body.” Coh said. “Only — whether it is a body fit for one’s story, or not. Takatsuji-san. Was your body fit for your story.”

Rui did not answer. I think she could not.

”…No.” At length she said it. “It was not fit. I made my body a weapon. An advertising vessel. I made the numbers armor. That armor did not protect me. It broke me.”

“Yes. But now you’ve noticed. To notice is — to be able to rewrite.”

Rui’s outline wavered, a little. Particles scattered for an instant, and gathered again. It looked almost as if it were weeping.

I looked at Rui’s outline. And at my own.

“Takatsuji-san.”

”…What.”

“Your body is beautiful.”

Rui looked at me. Eyes of surprise, of bewilderment.

”…Beautiful.”

“Long, and slender, and striking. That is the proof that you have, all along, faced your body. Even if the direction was wrong. You didn’t neglect your body. You faced it, seriously. That seriousness is carved into this outline.”

Rui looked down.

”…Is that consolation.”

“No,” I said. “I looked at your outline, and honestly thought so. That is all.”

V

There was a silence.

The two outlines shone on, quietly, side by side. The air of the Circle was cold-seeming, and warm.

“Seri,” Coh said. “You called Takatsuji-san’s body beautiful. Then — your own. Can you say it.”

”…My body.”

“Can you say it, yourself.”

I looked up at my own outline. The broad shoulders. The shallow cinch. The sturdy legs. The honest body of accumulated time.

”…Strong.”

“Mm.”

“I rebuilt a body that had been weak. So it is strong. I seated the core, little by little. So it is strong. I’ve come, lately, to think — a little at a time — that I may be proud of this body.”

“That’s right.”

“But,” I went on, “it’s not perfect. The cinch is shallow, the body fat still even, and looking in the mirror, there are days I hate it. Those days exist.”

“They may.” Coh said. “There is no perfect body. There is only — the body of that person, now.”

Rui opened her mouth.

”…Himuro.”

“Yes.”

“Your body is strong. That is something I did not have.” Her voice was still hard. But beneath the hardness, something seemed to come through. “I, who managed my body by number, did not build strength. I only kept thinness. If you have rebuilt your body — that deserves respect.”

I faltered. Because the one who had been my enemy had acknowledged the strength of my body.

”…Thank you.”

“No thanks are needed. I said what is true.”

So saying, Rui faced forward. Her profile had loosened, a little. As if hard ice had melted, a little.

VI

“Type,” Coh said, “is not a matter of better or worse. It is the type of one’s story.”

Above the two outlines, letters rose, thin.

Seri — leaning mesomorph. Heavy bone, good muscle ride. Shallow cinch, but core present.

Rui — ectomorph. Fine bone, tall. Little muscle, but suppleness.

“The mesomorph is a body that fights. A body that piles up. Yours is that, Seri. The ectomorph is a body that runs. Thin, long, far. Takatsuji-san, your type is, by nature, that. You tried to keep thinness by working against your type, and paid the price.”

“Against it,” Rui murmured, as if to herself.

“The thinness of the ectomorph is natural. You shaved it to the limit, by number. And so the body faded. Thinness is not value. Value is — what you live, in that body. Your type is suited to going on, long. The persistence you put into chasing number — turn it, and it becomes the strength to go on, long. Not to scrape, but to pile. That is the teaching of your type.”

Rui looked at her outline a long while. And, slowly, nodded.

”…I think, for the first time, I can forgive my body.”

The voice was small. But certainly, it reached.

VII

After the measuring, we sat side by side on the bench in the corner of the Circle. The two outlines still lingered, thin, in the air. The fading light wavered.

I looked at them, side by side. Left, me. Right, Rui. The forms different. The types different. The stories different. But both, in the same pale blue light, in the same human shape, standing.

“Coh,” I said. “Which of these is correct.”

“Both. Seri’s body is correct for Seri. Takatsuji-san’s body is, still, in the middle of being rewritten — but it has its own rightness. There is not one correct body.”

I pressed the words into my chest.

There is not one correct body. For a long time I had thought my own body wrong. Broad shoulders, shallow cinch, sturdy legs. The magazines, the social feeds, praised thin, striking waists. My body fell outside that. But this body is the form of my story. An honest body, rebuilt over three years. No one can call it wrong. And Rui’s body, too, is the form of her story. No one can dismiss it as mistake.

“Takatsuji-san. We have the same craft, don’t we. The craft of measuring, of reading, the body. Contura, and Veil’s scan, share a root — measuring the human body. But we’ve walked different roads. You, in number. I, in story. Even so, here, now, measured side by side, each with our own outline — that isn’t bad, is it.”

Rui narrowed her eyes, as if thinking. Silent a long while. Then, small, very small, she laughed. Not irony, not cold — only a smile.

”…Not bad.”

VIII

“Himuro,” Rui said. “What do I do, from here.”

A quiet voice. The cold was gone. She only asked, honestly.

“First, rest. The body is faded because it has not rested. Stop chasing number, a little. Not scrape — pile. And don’t stop measuring. To take back freshness. Only — don’t accuse yourself with number. Read it as story. Listen to what your body is saying.”

”…Story. I’ve believed only in number.”

“Number is not a bad thing. It is the letters of the story. Without reading the letters, the story can’t be read. But letters alone don’t tell the story.”

”…You’ve changed. Before, you feared number, didn’t you. When I pressed you with it, your face twisted. Now you say number is letters.”

“I’ve changed. Not completely yet, but, little by little.”

”…Can I change, too.”

“You can. The moment you wish to, you’ve already begun.”

Rui laughed once more, small.

”…You’re a strange person. Before, I disliked you. The way you read the body, the way you thought — all different. And yet, now — I think I understand, a little. Your words, that the body is a story. Not completely, yet. But a little.”

I looked at Rui’s profile. The bare face, without the smart-glasses. Still tired — but something had come through. Light, colour, beginning to return.

“Takatsuji-san. If you like, come again. The Circle is always open.”

Rui looked slightly surprised. Then nodded.

”…I’ll think about it.”

It was a soft word the former Rui would never have used.

IX

After Rui had gone, I stayed alone in the Circle.

No outline remained in the air. The light was gone. But the air where the two bodies had stood side by side was still, I thought, a little warm.

“Coh.”

“Mm.”

“I told Rui there is not one correct body. But I myself don’t fully believe it, yet. That my own body is correct. There are still days I hate it, looking in the mirror.”

“I know.”

“What do I do.”

Coh let a moment pass.

“No need to believe. Only — stop doubting, too. Stop asking, correct or not. Only — it is. That is enough. Your body is. That is all. Not correct, not incorrect, not beautiful, not ugly. Set all those words aside. Only — it is. Take on that is. That is the Reader’s final reach.”

Only — it is. Simple-seeming, and very hard.

”…Understood. Little by little.”

“Little by little is fine.”

I stood. I turned off the light of the Circle. In the dark, I thought I saw, for an instant, a faint after-resonance of light. The resonance of the moment two outlines had shone side by side.

There is not one correct body. That was a word for Rui, for me, and for all the people whose bodies I would read, from here.

Climbing the stairs, I thought of my grandmother. Had she known this word? Knowing it, had she entrusted it to me?

Inside Contura, my grandmother’s voice sleeps. I had not yet heard it.

When I came out into the night streets of Aoyama, the streetlamps shone in a row. Like two outlines.

I set out toward Higashi-Nakano station. My step was, a little, lighter.

—

(Continued in Chapter 39. Sae’s Voice)