Diary.

Diary of a Lightwave – July 3

06:42 – I left the sun, as always. Forced. No choice. No goodbye. Just pure electromagnetic projection. Reflected, refracted, scattered, like my morality. I started my journey towards a dull south-facing window, covered in fingerprints and the smell of previous occupants.

08:19 – I approach the glass. My frequency is stable. My speed: 299,792,458 meters per second, like every day. Because everything must be constant except my state of mind.

08:21 – The neighbor. There she is again. In that faded bathrobe. Morning coffee, eyes empty, just like yesterday, just like tomorrow. My path is clear, untouched. No clouds. No blinds. Just me, the glass, and her depressing morning routine.

08:23 – And then… she sneezes.

A small, trivial explosion of air and mucus. An aerodynamic crime against silence. My wave pattern is abruptly disrupted. Not by a tsunami. Not by a supernova. But by a sneeze from a woman who has forgotten that there is more to life than instant coffee and reality TV.

08:24 – My phase shift is unmistakable. My refractive index changes slightly due to the tiny change in temperature and water vapor displacement. I become different. A touch bluer. A touch more tragic. No one notices it. No one feels it.

08:26 – I hit the glass. The transmission is inevitable. A fraction of me reflects. The rest slides through the window, through years of unwashed surface, into her. My photons hit her skin. She doesn’t notice me. She scratches her chin.

09:03 – I am completely absorbed. Forced into the texture of her dressing gown. Melted into cotton fibers that have survived too many washes. My existence ends there. No applause. No funeral.

Reflection: Is this my fate? To travel again each morning, only to be dampened by the tragedy of human routine? Why not be reflected in a diamond? Why not be broken in a raindrop over the ocean?

But no. I get sneezing fluid, shadow, and a woman who has forgotten how to smile with her eyes.

End of transmission.