The weekend arrived quickly, bringing with it a sense of relaxation I rarely experienced amid schoolwork and the constant reflection about the future. I decided to disconnect for a while and watch a movie. I chose Blade Runner 2049, a recommendation from a classmate. I knew its story was compelling and would let me observe concepts that intrigued me.
I settled into the couch, the screen glowing in front of me, and lost myself in the movie's futuristic world. As the story progressed, one scene in particular caught my attention: the protagonist, K, stood in the rain with Joi, his holographic girlfriend. I watched how he interacted with her, how the rain fell on him, while she—being a hologram—seemed unaffected. And yet, something didn't add up. The hologram not only remained visible despite the water, but also seemed to react, as if she, too, were getting wet. It was strange.
Why would a projection of light appear to be soaked? My mind began to wander, and the thought linked up with something I had read before. I recalled a book about theories of quantum simulation. One of its ideas suggested that in sufficiently advanced simulated environments, systems could interact with physical phenomena by manipulating local conditions of space. In other words, a projection that sophisticated might not appear wet because it was—but because the simulation of the rain had adjusted to it.
That idea clicked with the image of Joi in the rain. I felt something unlock, as if I had just connected scattered pieces. But there were still gray areas—unresolved points. Even so, the sensation lingered. It remained there, like a thread pulling at something deeper.
It wasn't just curiosity. There was a spark that begged to be explored. Something fundamental pulsed behind that scene. My Branch—that peculiar way I perceive connections—let me feel it, even if I couldn't fully explain it.
What would happen if I looked into it further?
I sat at the computer and started researching. I couldn't ignore it. The idea of recreating such advanced technology fascinated me, and my mind kept circling back to that image. I gathered fragments of information about holograms, quantum simulation, and light projections.
Each article was like a piece of the puzzle, though many didn't fit right away. Some were contradictory or confusing. But that didn't stop me. I knew that with enough patience, I could start to see patterns. My process is slow—almost artisanal: observe, break down, reinterpret. If something didn't make sense, it wasn't an obstacle—it was a chance to look from another angle.
I found theories on the interaction between projections and the environment, but many were vague. The idea that an intangible image could adapt to the physical world seemed like fantasy. Yet—what if it wasn't entirely? Maybe the key wasn't altering the light, but space itself. Maybe it wasn't impossible—just not yet fully understood.
I explored studies on laser projections, visual illusions, magnetic fields, nanomaterials. Everything seemed to head in different directions, but deep down, I sensed connections. I couldn't always see them clearly—but I knew they were there.
Days passed, and each morning I found myself more immersed in this search. I'd wake up, eat just enough, and return to the research. Breaks were minimal. Not out of obligation, but from a drive that was hard to ignore. Every concept led to another. Every discovery made me reassess earlier ideas.
Slowly, patterns began to emerge. What once were isolated data points started to form something coherent—though still incomplete. There were gaps—many of them—but also the outlines of a common logic. And then, while reading about electromagnetic fields used to stabilize projections, something shifted.
It was a subtle feeling—like a click. Not a grand revelation, but a quiet understanding. The scattered pieces finally connected. Joi's scene in the rain no longer felt like science fiction. I understood how something like that could be achieved. How to manipulate materials, fields, and perception to give the impression of physical interaction.
I had reached a conclusion. It wasn't practical yet—it was still theoretical—but it was solid. I hadn't just found a possible explanation—I had grasped the process that made it viable.
I felt a mix of awe and calm. I had assembled something complex out of disparate elements. But more than the achievement itself, what struck me most was realizing I had reached a new threshold in how I think. My ability had helped, yes—but for the first time, I felt I was stepping into a realm that demanded more than just analysis.