SMALL ERROR MARGIN
1015 Words
That morning started 0.7 seconds slower.
No one else noticed.
The system didn't flag it either. 0.7 seconds was within the acceptable range of individual biological variation. It was noted, rounded, and then disappeared into the overall data.
But for him, that delay weighed heavily.
He woke up when the lights were on, but didn't sit up immediately. His body remained still for another breath. Not because he was tired. Not because he was lazy. Just… he didn't want to move yet.
The thought came very softly: I can stay here a little longer.
There was no reason to stay.
No obvious benefit.
Just that there wasn't enough force to get up right away.
In the end, he sat up. Habit prevailed. But when he entered the bathroom, he realized he was noticing details he wouldn't normally pay attention to: the slightly longer running water, the cold floor under his feet, the thin layer of condensation clinging to the mirror before the system could adjust.
These details weren't bothersome. But they weren't necessary either.
They existed out of purpose.
As he ate breakfast, the screen displayed a very short message:
Morning performance: stable.
Nothing unusual.
No adjustment recommendations.
He ate slower than usual. Not much—just enough to prolong the meal by about a minute. A minute wouldn't change the schedule. It wouldn't cause any delays. It wouldn't affect anyone.
But in that extra time, he realized he was thinking about something unrelated to the upcoming work.
He thought about how, long ago, people used to eat breakfast without knowing exactly how much energy they needed for the day. They ate because they were hungry. Or perhaps sadness. Or perhaps pleasure.
The thought carried no discernible emotion. It simply lay there, like a discordant object in the tightly organized flow of the morning.
He left the house.
The hallway was still quiet. The neighbor across the street nodded as usual. Everything was proceeding at a steady rhythm. But as the elevator doors closed, he realized he was breathing deeper than usual.
Not from stress.
Just… a fuller breath.
He stood alone in the elevator. The screen displayed the floor, the arrival time, and a familiar reminder:
Maintaining neutrality optimizes the workday.
He had read that sentence countless times in his life. But today, for the first time, he wasn't reading it as a guide.
He was reading it as a question.
Why neutrality?
The question didn't linger. It wasn't strong enough to elicit a clear physiological response. But it lingered longer than necessary.
On the train, everything went smoothly. No one spoke. No one looked at each other for too long. But when the train stopped between stations—just for a few seconds to adjust traffic flow—he felt a very slight unease.
Not because of the delay.
Not because of the inconvenience.
Just because… he was waiting.
The feeling was unfamiliar. Before, such short waits didn't elicit any reaction. They were instantly filled with content, with announcements, with small stimuli just enough to be inconspicuous.
But today, he didn't turn on his screen.
He stood there, staring into the space between the stations, and realized he was feeling something very close to restlessness.
Not enough to name it.
But enough to recognize it.
When he arrived at work, he sat down at his desk as usual. The work lay before him. Clear. Nothing to speculate about. He started working—and still did well.
But between tasks, he began making very small pauses.
Not long enough to be considered interruptions.
Just short bursts—a few seconds between two actions.
In those bursts, he did nothing. No structured thinking. No analysis. Just letting his mind… not be immediately filled.
The feeling returned.
This time, it was a little clearer. No longer completely faint.
It was like a slight heaviness in his chest, not painful, but not pleasant either. A feeling that, if described, would probably be labeled unnecessary.
He continued working.
By lunchtime, when everyone was eating together, he realized he was listening more than usual. Not listening to respond correctly. But listening to… stay in the conversation longer than necessary.
A colleague mentioned moving to a different part of the city because of more stable grades. Everyone nodded. No one asked further questions.
He was about to nod along—but stopped.
Just for a moment.
Then he asked, very softly:
“Do you miss your old job?”
The question fell on the table like an out-of-shape object.
No one reacted immediately. Not because of shock. Just because the question didn’t have a clear place in the conversation.
The colleague looked at him. Not annoyed. Not confused. Just slightly surprised.
“No,” she answered after a pause. “The new place is better.”
The answer was perfectly logical.
He nodded.
But the pause between the question and the answer—that gap—made him realize something: his question wasn’t about finding information.
It was about finding an emotion.
And that emotion didn’t come.
In the afternoon, he worked a little slower. Not significantly. His performance remained within a stable range. But in his mind, an idea began to form—not as a statement, but as a thought.
Self-recognition.
Some reactions are disappearing too quickly.
Not because they're wrong.
But because no one is waiting for them to appear.
On the way home, he walked slower. Not to save energy. Not to think. Just to prolong the time between two points.
The city was still running smoothly. Nothing had changed.
But he realized, for the first time in a long time, he was carrying something that hadn't been resolved that day.
Not a problem.
Not a specific worry.
Just a feeling that hadn't been smoothed out.
In the apartment, when the lights came on, he didn't sit down immediately. He stood there for a moment, in the perfect space, and let that feeling linger for another beat.
No one saw.
No system warned him.
Only him—and a small error, just enough not to disappear.
- Writer
