WHERE EMOTIONS ARE CONSIDERED A MISTAKE

No one told him that feelings were wrong. They just didn't mention it anymore. The morning started like any other day. The lights in the room came on at the right time, not too harsh, not too late. The temperature was stable. The air was adjusted to create a “neutral comfort”—a state that the manuals called optimal for starting a personal operating cycle. He opened his eyes without feeling anything special. Not tired. Not excited. Not sluggish. Just awake. On the wall-mounted screen, the indicators appeared politely. No blinking. No warnings. Sleep: sufficient. Heart rate: stable. Expected emotional range for the morning: low. A small line of text appeared in the bottom corner: Today is suitable for high-precision activities. He sat up. The movement was so familiar that his body didn't need to think. Everything unfolded smoothly: standing up, stepping into the bathroom, the water just warm enough, no moment of waiting to cause discomfort. In the mirror, he saw a face devoid of any noticeable emotion. Not tense. Not sad. Not happy. A face trained not to confuse others. He looked at himself for a few more seconds. Not out of curiosity. Just because there was nothing else to do. There was a very vague feeling, somewhere behind his chest. It wasn't clear whether it was discomfort or just an unfilled void. It wasn't strong enough to be registered by the system. Not clear enough to name. He turned away. Breakfast was prepared. Not according to preference—for preference is a concept that has long since been redefined—but according to a “history of positive reactions.” Something he had eaten without causing any unusual fluctuations. He ate in silence. No music. No news. Only a short message scrolled across: No noteworthy events today. That should have reassured him. Most people liked days like that. Days when nothing unexpected happened. But for a very brief moment—so brief that if measured, it would be rounded to zero—he felt a little something like disappointment. He didn't hold onto it. He had been taught from a young age that such reactions were unhelpful. They didn't improve decisions. They didn't increase efficiency. They didn't make the day any better. Emotions, in moderation, are considered biological feedback. But prolonged emotions are interference. He left home on time. Not early. Not late. The door locked behind him with a soft sound, enough to confirm that everything had been handled. The common hallway was quiet. A few other people were also leaving their apartments. No one looked at anyone for too long. Not because they were avoiding each other, but because there was no reason to. They nodded—the minimal gesture of acknowledging each other's presence. Outside, the city operated with familiar precision. Traffic flowed smoothly. No honking. No sudden stops. Information boards displayed travel times adjusted to instantaneous density. He walked into the stream without feeling integrated—nor feeling separated. Just walking. On the train, he stood next to a woman roughly his age. The distance between them was calculated just enough not to be uncomfortable, but also not to create unnecessary intimacy. She looked at her personal screen. The pale blue light reflected off her face, blurring any features that might suggest emotion. He didn't know what she was thinking. He didn't ask himself. People used to be curious about such things. But speculating about other people's inner states has proven ineffective and prone to cognitive distortion. Now, everything is displayed when necessary—and hidden when not. The train stops precisely. No delay. He gets off, walks a few minutes, then enters the building where he works. No large nameplate. Not necessary. Places like this don't need to be identified by emotion. The workspace is open, evenly lit, with no dark corners. The sound is background. Everyone sits in their positions naturally, as if they've been there before. He turns on his monitor. The work appears—clear, logically fragmented, nothing to speculate about. He works well. Not excellent. Not bad. Just right. Between tasks, there isn't enough space for the mind to wander. When one task is finished, the next is ready. This continuous flow was designed to minimize the moments when a person might begin to feel… something. By midday, he realized he hadn't thought about anything unrelated to what he was doing. The thought came very softly. Without superfluous moments, would I exist outside of my function? This question didn't pop up as a major reflection. It was like a small noise in a soundproof room. No one else heard it. He continued working. At lunchtime, he ate with the others. They talked—if they could be called that—about topics that had been cleared up. There were no arguments. No prolonged silences. Each sentence was of appropriate length, leaving no lingering echo. One person talked about moving house. Another talked about changing clothes. He changed his route. No one asked, “Are you sad?” No one answered, “I feel a sense of loss.” Those questions were no longer relevant in the current context. He listened. He nodded. Occasionally responded appropriately. No one noticed that, for a very brief moment, he paused before answering. That delay was too small to be noticeable. But to him, it was as clear as a c***k. In that c***k, there was a feeling that hadn't yet been smoothed out. The afternoon passed. Evening arrived on schedule. He returned home, walking along the clean, evenly lit streets. The city at night was not much different from the day. There was no dramatic transition to evoke emotion. In his apartment, the lights automatically adjusted. The temperature was stable. No new notifications. He sat down. This time, there was no immediate need to do anything. A void appeared—small, but real. He didn't turn on the screen. He didn't open the suggested entertainment. He just sat there. And in that optimized silence, the hazy feeling from the morning returned. It wasn't clearer. But it didn't disappear either. Not sadness. Not anxiety. Just a heavy, hard-to-describe feeling. He realized he could… hold onto it. Not for any reason. Not to achieve anything. Just not push it away immediately as usual. That moment didn't change the world. No warning. No immediate consequences. But in a society where everything is designed to pass without a trace, an emotion that refuses to disappear on schedule is a small deviation. And he—though he couldn't yet name him—had begun to remain in that deviation for longer than necessary.