Option B

They told us the rule was ancient.

That when we turned eighteen, the Machine would present us with three doors.

And we would choose. Warrior. Seer. Healer.

Our futures sealed with that single act.

Most people panicked.

Some prepared.

Me? I had a rule.

Always pick Option B.

It started as a joke. When I was a kid and couldn’t decide between chocolate or vanilla, I’d ask my brother, and he’d say, “Option B.” Every time. We laughed about it like it was magic. As if Option B always worked out.

So I stuck with it. Through school. Through tests. Through every impossible little choice.

And when the Machine buzzed to life on my 18th birthday, offering its three doors—marked only with the letters A, B, and C—I didn’t hesitate.

I stepped into B.

The world I entered was not a classroom or a battlefield or a quiet grove of healing. It was all of them.

A simulation chamber.

A proving ground.

"Seer,” the voice announced. “Chosen for path B. Cognitive challenge initiated."

That’s when I realized something. Seers didn’t just see. They had to decide.

Between outcomes.

Between people.

And my rule—my silly, sacred little rule—became a curse.

The first test was small:

Option A — warn the guards of a coming fire.

Option B — save a girl trapped under rubble.

Option C — preserve the city archives.

I chose B.

The girl lived.

The fire spread.

History burned.

The instructors said I did well.

I didn’t sleep for two nights.

Then the scenarios escalated.

A friend tied to the tracks.

A train full of innocents hurtling forward.

Option A — divert the train.

Option B — do nothing.

Option C — jump in and try to stop it with your body.

I chose B. I always did.

And I watched him die.

Because I couldn’t break the rule.

Because part of me believed that if I ever chose otherwise, everything else in my life would unravel.

I started having dreams.

Of doors marked B.

Of hands pulling me through.

Of voices whispering: “You chose this.”

I wanted to scream at them:

“No, I didn’t choose it. I just followed the rule.”

But wasn’t that the same thing?

The final test broke me.

A simulation—but it felt too real.

Three options:

Option A — Sacrifice yourself to stop a plague.

Option B — Release a cure that saves 10,000 but permanently damages 1,000 children.

Option C — Let nature take its course.

I stood for ten full minutes.

Tears sliding down my face.

Hands shaking.

Wanting, for once, to look away from B.

But I pressed it.

The children... screamed.

After that, I stopped sleeping. I stopped laughing.

Even my brother couldn’t look me in the eye.

“Why didn’t you just break the rule?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

Because I still don’t know if I was choosing, or if I was being chosen.

One day, the Machine will call me again.

And I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to press B again.

But I do know this:

When the world teaches you to follow a path without thinking—

when you give up choice for comfort—

you don’t just lose your freedom.

You lose yourself.

📝 Author’s Note:

Thanks so much for reading “Option B.”

This story means a lot to me — especially if you’ve ever been afraid to make the wrong choice, or felt trapped by your own “rules.”

💬 I’d love to hear what you would have done in his place. Leave a comment and let’s talk about it.

💡 And if you enjoyed this, don’t forget to hit that ❤️ or leave a tip — it helps me keep telling stories like this one.