In the city of Veridia, emotions were no longer a biological reflex; they were a utility. The city council had passed the “Emotional Stability Act” five years ago, declaring that public displays of distress lowered property values and disrupted the flow of commerce. Now, if you wanted to cry in public, you had to scan your wrist-link and pay the “Tear Tax.”
James adjusted his tie in the reflection of the subway window. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that settles in your marrow. He was thirty-two, an actuary for a mid-sized insurance firm, and he was currently holding back a sob that had been building since Tuesday.
The subway car was silent, save for the rhythmic clatter of the tracks. Everyone stared at their screens, their faces smooth, unblemished masks of neutrality. To cry here would cost him 500 credits—a week’s groceries. James swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat back down. He couldn’t afford to be sad today.
He arrived at his office building, a monolith of glass and steel that pierced the smoggy sky. The lobby was equipped with “Mood Scanners” at the entrance. James walked through the gate, keeping his heart rate steady. Green light. He was safe.
His cubicle was on the 42nd floor. It was a gray box in a sea of gray boxes. His boss, Mr. Henderson, was a man who seemed to have had his tear ducts surgically removed. Henderson valued efficiency above all else.
“James,” Henderson said, dropping a file on James’s desk. “The quarterly projections are down. I need you to fix them. And fix your face. You look like you’re about to audit a funeral.”
James nodded, saying nothing. He opened the spreadsheet. The numbers blurred. His mother had passed away three days ago. The funeral had been expensive, and the “Grief Permit” required to hold the service in a public park had drained his savings. He hadn’t cried then. He had saved his tears for when he could afford them, but now, sitting under the fluorescent hum of the office lights, the urge was overwhelming.
He needed to cry. He needed to let it out. But 500 credits was too much.
He checked his wrist-link. Balance: 620 credits.
If he cried now, he’d be left with nothing for the weekend. He stared at the screen, the numbers swimming in a haze of unshed tears. He thought about his mother’s laugh, the way she used to hum while cooking pasta, the smell of her perfume. The pressure in his chest tightened, a physical pain that radiated into his jaw.
He stood up abruptly. “Restroom,” he muttered to no one in particular.
He walked quickly to the elevator, pressing the button for the roof. The roof was a gray expanse of concrete and ventilation units. It was technically public space, so the tax applied, but it was empty.
James walked to the edge, looking down at the city. The cars were tiny specks, moving like blood cells through concrete veins. He took a deep breath, the cold air biting his lungs. He checked his balance again. 620.
He closed his eyes. He let the image of his mother fill his mind. He let the sadness rise, like a tide. He felt the first tear escape, hot and fast, tracking down his cheek.
Beep.
His wrist-link vibrated. Transaction Pending: 500 Credits.
He didn’t wipe it away. Another tear fell. Then another. He wasn’t sobbing, not yet. He was just letting them fall, watching the balance on his wrist tick down.
500… 450… 400…
It was a pay-per-drop system. Cruel, but efficient.
James cried for his mother. He cried for the gray cubicle. He cried for the silence in his apartment. He cried until his chest heaved and his throat burned. He watched the numbers on his wrist dwindle.
200… 150… 100…
He was down to his last hundred credits. He had to stop. He took a shuddering breath, wiping his face with his sleeve. The world looked sharper, somehow. The gray sky seemed a little less oppressive.
He turned to leave, but stopped. Standing near the ventilation unit was a woman he recognized from accounting. Sarah. She was holding a tissue, her eyes red-rimmed. She hadn’t scanned her wrist. She was crying for free, hiding in the blind spot of the camera.
She looked at James, panic in her eyes. She expected him to report her. Reporting a “Tax Evader” earned you a 50-credit bonus.
James looked at his wrist. Balance: 82 credits. He looked at Sarah, who was trembling, waiting for the judgment.
James smiled. It was a small, sad smile, but it was real. He tapped his wrist-link, disabling the proximity alert.
“Wind’s strong up here,” James said softly. “Dries the eyes fast.”
Sarah stared at him, confused, then relieved. She nodded slowly, wiping her face.
James walked back to the elevator. He was broke. He had no money for dinner, no money for the weekend. But as the doors closed, he felt lighter. He realized that while the city could charge for the tears, it couldn’t charge for the connection.
He touched his cheek, still damp. It was the most expensive thing he owned, and yet, for the first time in years, he felt rich.
Subtle Reflection:
Sometimes, the things we are forced to pay for are not the things that truly cost us. We pay for the release, but the healing? That remains ours, hidden in the blind spots, shared in silence.
