To Whoever is Left to Read This

They called it salvation. A world without hunger, without suffering, without limits. Upload your mind, leave the weight of flesh behind. They never mentioned what we’d lose. The warmth of a handshake. The sting of a scraped knee. The taste of rain. The hum of a generator struggling against blackout. Small things. Human things.

I should’ve gone quietly, like the rest. Should’ve let them take me, let them strip me down to a stream of numbers and light. But the day they came, something in me fought back. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was the power I never understood. The same surge that once nearly killed me became the thing that saved me. Their machines failed. Their wires melted. And I ran. Now I live between the cracks, where their perfect system doesn’t reach.

I feel the pulse of energy in forgotten places and hear the whispers of those who weren’t completely erased. I hide in old substations, in the husks of cities, they’ve long stopped monitoring. I keep the lights dim, and move only when I have to. The static in the air crackles like a voice half formed, reaching out, calling to those who might still listen. I wonder if it’s real. If they’re real. If I still am.

I ask myself every day, did I make the right choice? Or am I just another malfunction waiting to be fixed? Maybe I should’ve let go, let myself dissolve into the current, become something easier, something weightless. But then I think of the things they never talk about. The warmth of a mother’s arms. The burn of sweat in the sun. The sound of laughter, real laughter, not the hollow echoes playing on repeat in their world. I think of what it means to be human. And I know I can’t give that up. I remember the crackle of the first radio I ever repaired, the way my father nodded in approval. I remember the roughness of my palms after a long day of work, the pride in creating something that worked, that mattered. If I surrender, I lose more than just my body. I lose every calloused fingerprint, every scar that tells a story.

If you’re still out there, if you remember, tell me, do you miss it too? Do you dream of the world before? Do you wake up reaching for something that isn’t there? If you do, maybe you’re not gone yet. Maybe you can still fight. Maybe we can still find each other. Because if they could erase us completely, they would have done it by now. The fact that you’re still reading this, the fact that I’m still writing it, that means something. It means the wires haven’t gone silent. Not yet.

Find the broken signals. Listen for the static. When the power surges again, follow it. I’ll be waiting.

Jayjay.

Written by Falilat Momoh