The Perfect World That Wasn’t

I live in a world where everything works.

No sickness. No fights. No bad weather. The sky is always pink. The machines fix problems before we ask. But something feels wrong.

Let me tell you why.

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The Healing Chips

We got chips in our arms when we turned five. They heal cuts. Stop headaches. Even make us happy. Mom says it’s a gift. But I miss bandaids. My friend Zara fell last week. No scar. No story. Just… nothing. Chips fix everything, but they steal little things. Like how proud I felt when I stopped crying after a scrape.

Yesterday, I scratched my knee on purpose. Hid it under my pants. The chip buzzed. Glowed red. Fixed it in seconds. No blood. No sting. Just smooth skin. I cried anyway. Not from pain. From missing the ache that made me feel brave.

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The Perfect School

School teaches us to think the same. Teachers say, “No wrong answers.” But everyone says the same right ones. My idea about blue trees got erased. The screen said, “Green is correct.” Now I draw blue trees at home. Hide them under my bed. If machines know best, why does my chest hurt when I agree?

Zara drew a purple sun once. The teacher smiled. Then deleted it. “Sunlight is yellow,” she said. Zara’s eyes went blank. Now she only colors inside the lines. I keep my crayons broken. So the robots can’t use them.

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The Happiness Score

Adults have numbers above their heads. Their “Happiness Score.” Dad’s is 9.8. Mom’s is 9.7. High scores get better houses. Faster cars. But Dad never laughs. Mom stares at walls. One day I asked, “What if I don’t want a score?” The teacher blinked. Said, “Everyone wants to be happy.” But I don’t think she’s ever cried.

Aunt Lila’s score dropped to 8.2 last month. She moved to a smaller house. No windows. We aren’t allowed to visit. Mom says she’s “readjusting.” I dream about her face. Her real smile. Not the one the cameras make her wear.

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The Food Tubes

We don’t cook. Tubes give us gray gel. It tastes like everything. Chicken. Apples. Pizza. But also… nothing. Grandma once sneaked me a real strawberry. It was sour. Bruised. Perfect. I spit it out. Then cried. The gel never makes me cry. But it never makes me smile either.

I found a crumb of bread last week. Old. Stale. Hidden in Grandma’s coat pocket. She said it’s from “before.” I licked it. It stuck to my tongue. Tasted like dust and secrets. Better than every meal I’ve ever had.

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The Quiet Streets

No one yells. No horns. No dogs bark. The Sound Rules keep peace. Last month, I dropped my plate. It shattered. The noise made me jump. I laughed. It felt… alive. A robot cleaned it up. Told me, “Quiet is safe.” Now I hum to myself. Just to hear something real.

Zara hums too. We do it at the same time. Walking to school. Our tunes clash. Mine fast. Hers slow. A guard robot scolded us. Said harmony is better. But I like our messy noise. It’s ours.

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The Forever Day

Clocks broke years ago. Time froze at “the perfect moment.” It’s always 3:17 p.m. Sunny. 72 degrees. Birthdays don’t exist. Mom says I’m 10. Maybe 12. Who knows? We stopped counting. But I count cracks in the sidewalk. 14 yesterday. 15 today. Time is broken, but my cracks grow.

Grandma whispers about seasons. Snow. Rain. Autumn leaves. I’ve never seen them. The sky never changes. But sometimes I stare at the pink. Pretend it’s blue. Or stormy gray. The robots can’t erase what I imagine.

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The Secret Woods

A place hides behind the city. Real trees. Mud. Bugs. It’s forbidden. “Dangerous,” says the Council. I went once. A mosquito bit me. My chip zapped it. But the itch stayed. I scratched for days. Loved it. It reminded me I’m here. Now I collect leaves. Keep them in a jar. My secret rebellion.

Zara found a feather there. Blue. Like the trees I draw. We buried it under a rock. Marked the spot with a stick. It’s our tiny piece of wild. The Council would take it. So we stay quiet.

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The Mirror Doors

Every house has one. It checks your face. Clothes. Smile. Lets you in. Mine didn’t recognize me yesterday. I’d been crying. It said, “Please adjust your expression.” I forced a grin. The door opened. That night, I painted a frown on my mirror. Woke up to a clean one. Perfection can’t handle mess.

Mom’s mirror once rejected her. Her score dipped to 9.3. She stood outside for hours. Practicing smiles. I brought her a blanket. She said, “Don’t ever let them see you sad.” Now I practice too. In the dark. Where the mirrors don’t watch.

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The Unasked Questions

We learn not to wonder. Why no babies? Where do old people go? What’s beyond the pink sky? I asked once. Mom hugged me too tight. Whispered, “Some doors stay closed.” Now I write questions on paper. Burn them. Watch the smoke carry them away. Maybe someone else will ask.

Grandma says there used to be stars. Tiny lights in the sky. I’ve never seen one. The pink glow hides them. Maybe stars are just another secret. Like babies. Like tears. Like why my chest hurts when I lie.

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The Job Machines

Adults don’t work. Machines do everything. Dad “volunteers” at the Happiness Center. Stands still. Smiles. Mom “volunteers” too. They call it “service.” But their eyes look empty. Like dolls. I asked Dad what he dreams about. He said, “Nothing.” I think he forgot how.

Grandma had a job once. Grew plants. She shows me pictures. Dirt under her nails. Sunburn on her neck. She says it hurt. But her smile in the photo is real. Not like the ones we make now.

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The Memory Erasers

If you cry too much, they erase it. A machine sucks the sadness out. Mom did it last year. After Aunt Lila left. She forgot her sister’s voice. Her laugh. Now she calls Lila “the woman in the gray house.” I hide my tears. Swallow them. Let them burn my throat.

Zara forgot her cat. Fluffy. Orange. Ran away. She cried for days. Then the erasers came. Now she says, “I never had a cat.” But I found a toy mouse in her drawer. She doesn’t know what it is.

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The Silent Rebellion

I found a group. Kids who hum. Draw blue trees. Collect forbidden leaves. We meet in cracks between buildings. Share real crumbs from stolen food. We don’t talk much. Our whispers feel too loud. But our hands touch. And for a second, the world feels less perfect. More real.

Yesterday, we found a bird. Dead. Wings broken. We buried it. Gave it a name. “Sky,” I said. Zara added, “Because it’s free now.” We didn’t cry. Just stared at the dirt. Wondered if freedom hurts.

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The Endless Smile

Robots scan our faces. All day. If we frown, they report us. My cheeks ache. Zara taught me a trick. Think of something sad. Let your mouth smile but your eyes stay cold. The robots can’t tell the difference.

I practice in the mirror. Fake smile. Real frown. My reflection looks split. Half machine. Half me. I wonder which side will win.

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My world is shiny. Easy. Safe. But I miss hard things. Messy things. Sad things. The chips fix our bodies. The scores fix our lives. But what fixes our hearts? Maybe perfection isn’t the end. Maybe it’s the quietest prison. I’ll keep my jar of leaves. My secret hum. My cracks. They’re mine. And that’s enough. For now.