The handwriting was printed.
a story in fragments
The wristband arrived in a white box with watercolor leaves printed on the sides. Inside: one black band, one glossy brochure, one QR code on cardstock.
Computer-generated cursive designed to look personal.
Marissa held the note up to the light. She could see the pixels if she looked close enough.
She stands in Conference Room B telling forty new hires about their Wellness Journey. The slides advance automatically. Her hands have nothing to do.
"What if we don't want to participate?"
She's answered this question sixty-three times now.
"Participation is completely voluntary."
The words taste like cardboard.
The fluorescent lights in the break room hum at a frequency that makes her teeth ache. The chicken parmesan tastes like the plastic she just removed.
Travis's Health Motivation Index is 87. His monthly premium is $410.
"It's an investment," Travis says. "In yourself."
She hadn't been to Whole Foods in three weeks.
She'd gone to Ralph's. Bought frozen dinners and a bag of fun-size Snickers she ate in the parking lot before driving home.
She deleted it.
It came back the next day.
The wristband glows faintly on her nightstand. Pulsing.
Not in rhythm with her heartbeat. Something else. Something steadier.
New day, new you!
She tries leaving the wristband at home. Just Saturday. Just to see.
When she gets home, she puts the band back on.
It vibrates once. Warmly. As if relieved.
She walks laps around her apartment at 11 PM to hit her step goal.
Kitchen to living room.
Living room to bedroom.
Bedroom to bathroom.
Bathroom to kitchen.
This isn't wellness, she thinks.
But she doesn't know how to stop.
"Your HMI score isn't just a number. It's a mirror of how much you care."
She starts eating in her car.
Engine off. Window cracked one inch. Far end of the Ralph's parking lot where the lights are broken.
The chips taste like forgiveness. Like rebellion. Like something that belongs to her and not the algorithm.
One Saturday she drives to the beach. No wristband. Phone in the glovebox.
Walks barefoot on sand. Watches waves and dogs and families. Eats a hot dog from a cart. Does absolutely nothing.
Freest she's felt in months.
It knew where she was. It knew what she bought.
There is no escape. There is only data.
On the fourth day, an email from HR.
Subject: Exciting Opportunity! 🎉
Congratulations, Marissa!
We've noticed that your recent disengagement patterns align with emerging wellness trends emphasizing autonomy and resistance to external validation.
Your participation demonstrates:
They've turned her rebellion into a metric.
"People who disengage and then reengage show stronger commitment than people who never disengage. We're calling it the Authenticity Curve."
"So you wanted me to quit."
"Not quit. Question. Push back. And then choose to come back on your own terms."
"But I didn't come back."
"Sure you did. You're here. You've reengaged with the system by critiquing it."
Compliance or noncompliance.
Engagement or disengagement.
It's all data. It's all trackable. It's all monetizable.
There is no outside.
"Resistance isn't a bug. It's a feature we can optimize."
Someone asks about scalability.
No one asks about Marissa.
At the orientation, forty new faces look at her with desperate hope she remembers having once.
"What if I don't want to participate?"
Marissa's smile doesn't change.
"Participation is completely voluntary."
She doesn't dream anymore.
Or she does, but the dreams are pre-approved. Optimized for restorative sleep quality.
In the morning she will wake at exactly 6:17 AM.
She will drink 16 ounces of water.
She will log her breakfast.
She will check her inbox for new mentee requests.
She will do this because she wants to.
She will do this because she chose to.
She will do this because there was never any other choice.
The wristband glows warm against her skin. Like it's been feeding.