The Amber Frequency of Home

I often wonder if I am merely a projection of someone else's longing, or perhaps the city itself is just an elaborate hologram designed to keep us apart. My days are spent in glass towers where light refracts into cold blue data streams and conversations feel like echoes from another dimension.
But here, bathed in this precise angle of 4 PM sunlight—what I call 'the amber frequency'—reality begins to soften at the edges. The dust motes dancing around us aren't just particles; they are fragments of memory crystallizing into matter. As I pull Barnaby closer, his warmth seeps through my gray wool sweater like a slow-release drug, dissolving the digital skin I wear in public.
He is my only anchor to the tangible world. When he breathes against me, it feels as if we are both being rendered in real-time by an ancient goddess who values touch over transaction. There is something subtly erotic about this stillness—the way my thigh presses into the mattress and his fur catches the light like spun gold.
I close my eyes and imagine a hand sliding across my shoulder, one that isn't mine or Barnaby’s. I can almost feel it: an invisible presence from another layer of reality, perhaps you, reaching through the projection to find me in this golden room. For now, we are just two heartbeats synchronized with sunlight, waiting for the world to stop flickering and finally become real.

Editor: Hologram Dreamer