Chapter 9. The Goal Outline

I

Rin came back to the Circle on the following Saturday afternoon. Only five days since the last reading.

I had dimmed the lights in the basement room. Only the indirect light along the walls faintly lit the floor. In that dimness Coh’s light surfaced more crisply. I had felt that Rin was trying to put something into words.

“Sensei — listen.” Rin, standing in the centre of the circle, scuffed the floor with her toe. “I thought about it. I — want to become this.”

I looked up, the measure still in my hand.

It was the first time the words I want to become had come out of Rin’s own mouth. Until then she had only want to be thinner — a word that pointed only in the direction of flight. The sound of this want to become was different.

“Will you tell me?”

Rin held out her phone. On the screen, a slender woman stood in a swimsuit. The waist nipped in, deep as a vase. The legs looked almost free of flesh. In the comments, the words goals, dream body lined up.

“I want to be like this person. Thinner. Waist, about here. Legs, a little thinner too.”

I looked at that screen for a while.

I did not deny it. If I denied it, Rin would close. I had learned that.

But at the same time, the bottom of my chest went cold. The me of the past had scrolled through the same screen hundreds of times. That waist. Those legs. That dream. I had tried to shave my own outline down to it. On days I couldn’t, I cut meals. On days I could, I took the emptiness in my stomach for pride. On both kinds of days I was punishing myself.

“I see.” I gave the phone back to Rin. “You want to be thinner.”

“Mm.”

“Then — may I ask you something?”

“Mm.”

“Thinner — and then what?”

II

Rin blinked.

“Then what?”

“It’s a good thing to have a self you want to become. But tell me past that. Once you’re thinner — what do you want to do?”

Rin opened her mouth and stopped. She dropped her eyes. Her toe scuffed the floor again.

”…Run, I suppose.”

“Run?”

“I’m in the track club. Middle and long distance. But when I run I get out of breath so fast. In practice I’m always at the back. It’s embarrassing. The seniors tell me I should be able to run more, but I can’t at all.”

Rin’s voice grew damp.

“And then I saw it on social media. That if you lean the body out you can run better. That being lighter makes you faster. So I thought — maybe that’s the body I want.”

I listened in silence.

Half of that was probably true. A lighter body is, in some ways, easier to run in. But the thinness on that screen was not a body for running. It was a body for being looked at. A body for paring away. A body for running would be shaped differently.

“But — really, I don’t think I need to be that thin. It’s just — the me who’s gasping in practice is embarrassing. The me in the mirror is embarrassing too.”

Rin cut off there. Then raised her face.

“Sensei, what do I want to become?”

That question was much truer than the waist on the Instagram screen.

“Right.” I said. “Then shall we dig at that want to run a little? Becoming thin isn’t the goal. Being able to run — isn’t that the goal? Becoming thin might be a consequence, or it might not. But if you want to run, then we should build a body that can.”

Rin’s eyes went a little wider. And then, slowly, she nodded.

III

“Then let’s draw it.” I said. “An outline of the self you want to become.”

“Outline?”

“The Goal Outline, I call it. Contura can draw, faintly, on top of your current outline — the shape you want to become.”

Rin’s eyes gleamed a little.

“You can see it?”

“I can. May I measure you?”

“Mm.”

I raised Contura. Coh’s light circled Rin, slowly, where she stood at the centre of the circle. Shoulder. Chest. Waist. Hip. Thigh. The rings of light made one circuit of her body; the measurements surfaced. And then, in the air, Rin’s outline — a pale blue luminous body — stood up.

The sixteen-year-old’s straight body. Shoulders still drawn in a little, the line of the waist soft. The thighs beginning, for the sake of running, to take on spring. An unfinished body, but one that was certainly in motion.

“This is you, now.”

Rin looked up at her own outline, oddly.

”…A little thick.”

“Legs for running.” I said. “Now let’s draw the Goal Outline. Tell me, in numbers, the body you want. Waist — where?”

Rin glanced at her phone screen and said, “Fifty-eight.” She was about sixty-three now. “Legs — thigh, around forty-five.”

“All right.”

I typed the figures into Contura’s goal field.

And then — across the outline of Rin in the air, another line ran.

It was clearly thinner than the current outline. The waist nipped deeper. The thighs narrowed. The two outlines overlapped and glowed. The present position, and the goal position. And the difference between them — at the waist, the thigh, the belly — the light grew stronger. White, almost blinding. As if it were being urged to pare those places away.

Rin’s face tightened.

”…It’s bright.”

“Mm.”

“Do I — have to cut all of this?”

Rin’s voice shook. The line of light was too strong. The distance between the present and the goal was too great. The light looked less like a guide than the edge of a blade.

For an instant, I saw my own past. Those numbers. Another X kilos. Another X centimetres. The goal had always come at me, paring. The one pared away had been me. And now Rin was seeing the same thing.

IV

“Coh.” I dropped my voice. “Isn’t this too strong?”

“Because the goal is far.” Coh answered. “The larger the gap between present and goal, the stronger the light grows. It is not a punishment. Only — there is distance.”

I looked at Rin’s tight face.

“Rin. Let’s redraw, a little.”

“Eh?”

“Leave the goal where it is. That outline, we’ll keep there as the place you’d like to reach someday. Just keep it there. But the light is too strong because the goal is too far. One step won’t get you there. So, in between — we draw a midpoint.”

I typed a new figure into Contura.

“Three months from now. Waist, sixty-one. Thigh, forty-seven. A little ahead of now.”

The Goal Outline changed. The blinding white light thinned. In its place, the gap between the current outline and the three-month outline was shown in a soft, water-blue line. The line was thin. Close. Within reach.

“This is the first step. Leaving the final destination where it is, I’ve cut one step into the ground just this side of it.”

Rin looked hard at that line.

”…This much, then.”

“Mm. This much, you can reach. Then — what will you do to get there? What gets you there?”

Rin thought.

”…Run, I suppose. Go to practice. Not skip it.”

“Mm.”

“And the stretches you taught me. Do them properly.”

“Mm.”

“And — sleep. Lately I’ve been on my phone late, not sleeping at all. I heard that’s bad for running too.”

“It is. The body is built while you sleep.”

“Then — lights out by eleven. I won’t bring the phone into the bedroom.”

Rin said it herself. Without being told by anyone. It was the instant the goal outline inside Rin turned from a number of punishment into an outline of action.

Coh spoke quietly.

“Seri. The Goal Outline is not a measuring stick for punishment. It is a guidepost. — Tell her so.”

I translated those words for Rin. In simpler language.

“Listen, Rin. A goal isn’t for blaming yourself. It’s for knowing where you’re going.”

Rin’s eyes went a little wider.

”…I see. Not for blaming.”

“Mm. It just makes walking easier. You can walk without one, but having one is — reassuring, isn’t it?”

”…Mm.”

Rin’s shoulders came down, a shade. The tension had gone out of them.

V

While Rin was changing, I stayed alone in the Circle.

There was no one’s outline in the air anymore. Only the Contura standby screen glowing faintly.

“Seri,” Coh said. “Why don’t you draw one too.”

“Mine?”

“A Goal Outline. Your own.”

I hesitated a little.

My self-to-be. For a long time I had trained myself not to think of it. In the eating-disorder years, the self I want to become had always been a tool for punishment. Another X kilos. Another X centimetres. The goal had always been a number for flogging myself with. So to have a goal had become frightening in itself. To have a goal was synonymous with punishing myself.

”…I’m afraid.”

“Be afraid.” Coh said. “But draw one, once. The you of today might be able to draw it as something other than punishment.”

I raised Contura again. And I measured myself.

The rings of light circled my body. Shoulder. Chest. Waist. Hip. Thigh. Numbers surfaced; in the air my outline stood up. Broad shoulders, shallow waist, solid legs. The shape of me, now familiar.

“The self I want to become.” I murmured.

Model-grade thinness? — No. That was no longer my story. Muscle like Sono’s? — I admired it, but for the me of now, it was still too far.

Then what.

I thought. And one phrase came up.

I want to build a core.

FFMI. The Core Number. Mine was still low. The bottom strength of muscle, lacking. I wanted to lay it on, little by little. A body that didn’t fear weight. A body that wasn’t buffeted by numbers. A core, for standing on my own feet.

It was strange. The me of half a year ago could never have put the words I want to gain muscle into her mouth. Muscle is heavy. For a long time heaviness had been my enemy. The scale going up. The outline in the mirror widening. All of it, defeat. But now I wanted that weight as my own. It was the same as Rin wanting to run. I too wanted a place to stand, on my own feet.

“In three months.” I typed into Contura. “Weight may go up. Let muscle. FFMI, to rise, a little.”

The Goal Outline was drawn.

Over my current outline, the outline of three months from now overlapped. The shoulders spring out a little more. The waist — with muscle coming in — relatively a shade deeper. The thighs tighten.

The line of light was not strong. Because the goal was not far. Within reach. A soft, water-blue light.

Looking at that line, I felt something strange.

This was not punishment.

I had drawn a goal as a kindness to myself. It may have been the first time. Until now a goal had always been a thing to measure not enough by. Still, not enough, more. But now this water-blue line only prompted me — let’s go this far. It was not accusing me. At the end of the line was not punishment but a promise — that the me of three months from now would be waiting there.

”…That’s a good outline.” Coh said, quietly.

“Coh.”

“Mm?”

“Can I walk, with this.”

“You can.” Coh’s voice was a little soft. “You have already begun to walk.”

VI

Rin came back, changed. A parka over her sportswear.

“Sensei — this.” Rin pointed at the Contura screen. “Can I take a photo and take it home?”

“Of course.”

Rin photographed the screen — her current outline, the three-month goal outline, and the soft line of light between them.

“Looking at this — somehow, it’s reassuring. It feels more like a guidepost than a goal.”

“A guidepost.”

“Mm. Because I know where I’m going. Because I won’t get lost. Because I don’t have to rush. Scrolling and panicking that I wanted to be like that person — that felt far away. This line feels more like mine.”

Rin held the phone against her chest.

“Thank you, Sensei. See you next month.”

“Mm. We’ll measure. Stories have freshness, after all.”

“I remember. Feet that have begun to move — that’s the me of now, right.”

Rin laughed and ran up the stairs. Her step was, certainly, lighter than when she had arrived.

VII

Alone in the Circle, I watched the light in the air go out.

Coh spoke quietly.

“Seri. You have the tools, now.”

“Tools?”

“Outline Sight. The Measuring. The Story Reading. The Core Number. The body type. The freshness. And the Goal Outline. The tools of the Reader are gathered, one full set, in your hands.”

I looked at my own hands. Nothing was in them. And yet, certainly, something was.

“But — I don’t feel like a Reader yet.”

“Why not?”

“Holding tools isn’t the same as being one. There needs to be a name.”

“A name.” Coh paused. “The Reader’s name. That is not something I can give. It is something you find for yourself.”

“Then I have to find it.”

“Find it.”

I slipped Contura into my pocket. I left the Circle and climbed the stairs. From the studio above, Sono’s laugh came distantly.

Outside, the Aoyama sky was stained vermilion with evening. People hurried past toward the station.

I stopped and looked at that sky.

The Goal Outline. A goal. A guidepost. I had my goal in my pocket now. A soft, water-blue light. It was not for accusing me. It was a small promise I had made to myself.

The Reader’s name.

That, I had not found yet. But the tools for finding it were gathered. The tools for reading an outline, the tools for drawing a goal, and the sense to treat a goal as a guidepost rather than a punishment. The rest was only for me to pick the name up myself.

I began to walk toward the station. A child ran past, fast-footed. An old person passed, slow-footed. Each walking their own outline, their own story.

And among them, my one step.

—