Chapter 48. The Last Insight

I

Five days had passed since the festival.

A morning at the end of July. The Aoyama street trees shook in a rain of cicada-song. Beneath Life Compass, the Circle. I stood alone.

The night of the festival — the night many had been measured, all at once. Each body had risen as an outline of light; to each, a story had returned. For three days after, I had read, as if sleeping. And then, at the last, I read my grandmother’s outline. The final data Sae had left in the deep layer of Contura. The story of seventy years my grandmother’s body had spun — I took it on.

The inheritance was over. The Laws, the history, the thought — all had come down, into me.

One, only, remained.

Me.

“Seri.”

Coh’s voice came from behind my temples. The usual calm, slightly canted voice. But this morning, somehow softer.

“You came.”

“Yes.”

“Today, you measure yourself.”

”…You knew.”

“I knew. When the festival ended, and you read your grandmother, and the only one left was yourself — I knew you’d notice.”

I stood before the mirror. Black polo, name badge, hair tied back. The usual morning me. But this morning, a little different. No tension in the shoulders. The breath, deep.

“I waited a week. There was the cleaning up, and the client follow-up, and Rin’s lesson. I was busy. But, really — I was afraid to measure.”

“Afraid.”

“This is the end, isn’t it. The last measuring.”

Coh let a moment pass.

“The last. That is how you feel, isn’t it.”

II

I stood at the centre of the Circle. Laid Contura on my palm. The old phone. The screen brightened at my finger.

“Contura.”

Letters rose. And pale blue particles danced around me.

The usual temperature, like cherishing. Light drew rings around my body. Shoulder. Collarbone. Chest. Waist. Hip. Thigh. Knee. Ankle. Neck. Upper arm. Forearm. Tracing each, carefully.

Numbers floated into the air.

Shoulder 42 Chest 85 Waist 70 Hip 91

I caught my breath.

It had changed.

That night — the night Coh first read me. Shoulder 41, chest 84, waist 72. A body still dragging the eating disorder. A body that had fought itself. The numbers, somehow small, hunched.

And half a year later, the first time I measured myself. The Core Number low; I felt defeated. The autumn of last year, I wavered again, dropped two off the chest. Sono fed me, I rebuilt, and measured again. This spring, toward the festival, I read people on and on. All of it is carved into the outline now.

Shoulder, up one. Chest, up one. Waist, down two — but not the thinness of restriction. A sound curve, from moving, eating, putting on muscle, dropping fat. Hip, up one in roundness. A body with its feet on the ground.

Core Number 16.2 Type: Ectomorph / with mesomorph emergence

Core Number, 16.2.

Up a point and a half from that too-low number of half a year ago. It does not reach Sono’s eighteen. But this number is the proof that I have eaten, moved, and piled muscle on, one at a time. It has stopped being a number to compare with others. It has become — mine.

“Type is the story one is born with.” Coh read. “Your inborn type is the slender body, built to run far. But on top of it, a layer of muscle has begun, little by little, to ride. Not a born mesomorph, as Sono is. But a mesomorph bud, built by your own hand.”

“Built.”

“Yes. Type cannot be changed. But on top of it, the way of living layers. Your body, now, has the type you were born with, and the type you have lived, overlapping. That is what these numbers are.”

Freshness showed. The light of the outline was vivid. No yellowing, no breaks. Different from the faded light of the autumn I wavered. A settled, deep blue.

Freshness: Current — measured two days ago

“You measured yourself two days ago.”

“On the last day of the festival, after reading the last person, I found I was measuring myself, without meaning to.”

“That is — measuring yourself has become habit.”

Habit. Once, measuring myself had been fear. Knowing the number was fear, looking in the mirror was fear. But now — every two or three days, I want to measure. I want to know what my body is saying, today. That, I learned, is what it means not to falsify freshness.

At the last, the Goal Outline rose. In the air, another, thinner outline stood beside the present me — a future me, shoulders slightly broader, core higher, the curve of the waist cleaner.

Goal Outline — nearly, there

A line of light joined the present outline and the goal outline. The gap was — only a little.

III

All the numbers were in.

Outline Sight. The Measuring. Core Number. Type. Freshness. Goal Outline. Every function Contura held was gathered onto my body. And, in the air, a body of light in my shape rose.

It was me.

Half a year ago, the first time I saw my own outline — I had wept, looking at it. Not shame. Because I had seen my own body, for the first time, as mere form, without judgement. That outline was warped. Shoulders drawn, chest shrunken, somehow small, clenched. The form of a body that had fought an enemy.

The present outline was different.

The shoulders were open.

That night — the sentence Coh had first read me.

Your shoulders have stopped, drawn in a little, so as not to blame anyone.

I had caught my breath at those words. They had been true. Most true. In high school, in the eating-disorder years, I had wanted to erase myself. To draw in the shoulders, shrink the chest, become small. Less, even, than making the body small — I had wanted to make my existence less noticeable. Grown, I still drew in my shoulders, unconsciously. Before a client, trying to straighten my posture — I would, by chance, draw in. Because I had no confidence in my body.

But — now, the shoulders of the outline in the air were not drawn in.

The collarbones stretched, level. The bias of tension in the trapezius had gone. The line of the shoulder opened, naturally, outward. As if — a shape, for taking someone in.

“Look, Coh.”

“I am looking.”

“My shoulders — they aren’t drawn in.”

“Ah. You’ve changed, Seri. A good deal.”

I laid a hand on my own shoulder. Over the cloth, I traced the end of the collarbone, with a finger. It was open. Truly open. The shoulders I had drawn in for more than ten years — here, now, were undone.

I did not cry. Only, deep in my chest, it grew warm. As if a place long frozen had, at last, thawed.

IV

“Seri.”

Coh said.

“I’ll read.”

The particles burst, all at once. Numbers swirled. Gathered, drew lines, became letters.

A sentence rose in the air. No — two.

Your shoulders are no longer drawn in. Your body has, at last, begun to write its own story.

I read it.

Read it — and the world stopped.

The first sentence was the gathering-up of that night. Shoulders drawn in, so as not to blame anyone. A body clenched to hide itself, to grow small, to be unnoticed. That — was drawn in no longer. There was no more need to hide. I did not have to blame myself.

And the second.

Your body has, at last, begun to write its own story.

It took me time to take in the weight of those words.

I had been, for a long time, a Reader. A vessel that read the stories written in others’ bodies. The client’s story. My grandmother’s story. Rui’s story. Sono’s story. I read them, returned them, delivered them. It was proud work. But — all that while, had I, somewhere, set my own story aside?

Reading others’ stories, I had put my own to the side.

Half a year ago, my first insight of myself had been this:

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

That was reconciliation with the enemy. Permission to stop fighting. But reconciliation had not yet been the beginning of the story. Because I had not known what lay on the other side of standing down.

The autumn of last year, I wavered again. Tried to fight the enemy. But I noticed. I was told — noticing was enough.

And now.

Your body has, at last, begun to write its own story.

What lay on the other side of standing down — was beginning to write one’s own story.

Not a vessel that reads others’ stories, but a subject that lives her own. That, I had become.

“Coh.”

“Mm.”

“Is this — true.”

“Contura does not lie. Numbers are the letters of story. Your body is telling it.”

I looked at the outline in the air. Shoulders open, chest settled, waist curved, feet rooted — an outline.

It was not perfect. The right shoulder, slightly higher. The left waist, with an old habit of tension remaining. The hips slightly different, left and right, in roundness. The fatigue of the festival, thin, pooled around the shoulder blades.

Not perfect. The wavering is, still, here.

But — standing, holding the wavering. That is the me of now.

V

“Seri.”

Coh’s voice was, more than usual, a little soft.

“You’ve come into your own, as a Reader. Kept the Laws, did not falsify freshness, returned others’ stories as their own. And faced your own story, honestly. When you wavered, you did not hide it — you measured anew, read anew.”

”…Yes.”

“Your grandmother, Sae, near the end, stopped reading. She feared her own story thinning. She feared the Reader’s price. But — you are different. You did not stop reading others, and you did not stop reading yourself. Your freshness has not faded.”

I bit my lip. What my grandmother had feared, at the end. What I had, once, fallen into. That — the present me has gone beyond, Coh was saying.

“But —”

Coh let a moment pass. Different from usual.

” — when a Reader stands on her own — the Compass’s office, ends.”

My heart jumped.

”…Coh?”

“Not that I will vanish at once. But — as you can stand, now, on your own feet — there is less and less need for me to support your shoulder.”

I looked at the screen of the phone. In it, Coh’s light. That light — seemed, a little, thinner than usual. Or — I only felt so.

“Will Coh go away.”

“Go away — perhaps. Or change form. From Compass —”

Coh let a moment pass.

” — to, simply, an old friend.”

“Old friend.”

“Not bad, is it.”

I tried to laugh. I could. But the back of my eyes was hot. A year and a half since I met Coh. Since that night in the Kagurazaka storehouse, when I started the phone my grandmother left. Coh had been, all the while. When I was afraid, canted, guiding me. When I wavered, teaching the Laws, pulling me back. When I wept, saying nothing, only shining.

My grandmother, too — had it been so? She, too, had relied on Coh, the Compass, for a long time. But near the end, she stopped reading. Parted from Coh. Because she could stand alone? Or — because she feared the Reader’s price?

I do not, yet, fear. That my own story will thin. That reading others, I will erase myself. Because I have learned to measure myself. Because I have learned to measure anew, even when I waver. That is the difference between my grandmother and me.

That presence will change form. Or — someday, vanish.

“I’ll miss you.”

I said it, honestly. I did not hide it. I did not falsify freshness.

”…Yes.” Coh said. In the voice, I thought, a faint tremor. The particles wavered. “I, too, perhaps, a little. A Compass, when the one it guides stands on her own, ends its office. That is the right ending. But — the right ending is not, for all that, without loneliness.”

”…Yes.”

“Seri. Keep this in mind. Even when I am gone from beside you — all the stories you have read, remain. Misaki’s. Rin’s. Your grandmother’s. And your own. They are not mine. They are yours. They are your story, that you go on writing.”

I nodded. Words would not come. But I could nod.

VI

I turned back to the outline in the air.

Two of me. The me of flesh, and the me of outline. Half a year ago, the two had seemed, somehow, to disagree. The me of flesh had feared the me of outline. The me of outline, I had felt, would expose the lie of the me of flesh.

Now — they overlapped. There were gaps. The height of the right shoulder, the old habit of the waist, did not altogether agree. But they faced the same way. The me of flesh no longer feared the me of outline. The me of outline no longer accused the me of flesh.

A year and a half ago, I saw my body in weight. In size. In not enough, too much, incorrect. But that night, when the luminous outline rose, I saw my body as one form, one story. That was frightening, and it was saving.

And now — I see my body as my story.

It is not perfect. There is wavering. The shadow of the eating disorder may creep back. The voice that blames me may return. But then — I have only to measure. Without falsifying freshness. To read anew, my own story.

And, for the first time, I smiled at that outline.

From the heart, I smiled.

“Thank you.”

Who I said it to. My body? Coh? My grandmother? Myself? To all, I think.

The outline in the air wavered, once. The light grew strong, an instant, and settled. As if returning something.

Coh said nothing. Only, the light of the screen shone, quiet.

VII

When I came up, outside it was a summer morning, brand-new.

The cicada-song rained down. On the Aoyama slope, people climbed and descended. A salaryman with coffee. An old person in running wear. A mother pushing a stroller. Each body, there. Each, with a story.

I set my awareness on my own shoulders.

Not drawn in. Open.

With these shoulders, from here, I could hold someone. Could touch a client’s tired shoulder. Could clap Sono’s broad back. Could encourage Rin’s small shoulders.

And — myself, too.

The phone grew faintly warm in my pocket.

“Seri.”

“Yes.”

“After the festival — it isn’t, yet, over. There is the after of the people you read. The ripples are spreading. There is what Rin has begun. What Rui is trying to change. What Sono has decided.”

“Yes.”

“Next, it is time to go and see those.”

I looked up at the sky. The late-July sky was high, and blue. White clouds drifted, slowly.

Coh is still there. In the screen, behind the temples, beside me. But — someday, the form will change. From Compass, to old friend. Or, to something else, altogether. That presentiment lay, deep in my chest. Heavy, but warm.

I walked on. Up the Aoyama slope. My step was, far lighter than a year and a half ago.

My body has begun to write its own story.

Still, the first page. There is wavering. There will be mis-writings. But — the first sentence is written.

Your shoulders are no longer drawn in.

That sentence, I set on the first page. And I turn the next.

—

(Continued in Chapter 49. After the Festival of the Circle)