Nov 26, 2025
Diary: date unknown, 50.000 lightyears away from home.
The stars don’t speak the same language here. They hum in frantic tones, almost like they’re trying to shun me or maybe welcome me. It’s hard to tell anymore. The instruments say I’ve been adrift for 213 cycles, but time feels elastic. I sleep in fragments and wake in echoes.
Sometimes I think I can still smell Earth, the smell of grass, raindrops, electricity before a storm, but it vanishes when I open my eyes. Out here, air tastes like metal and memory.
The last transmission came weeks ago. Static, then silence. I replay it every night, as if I could will meaning back into the noise.
I don’t know if I’m heading somewhere, or just away.
