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 "Invisible Signal" explores the paradox of technological achievement and human disconnection through the lens of a narrator who, in inventing a revolutionary presence sensor, inadvertently becomes absent from his own social world. The story juxtaposes professional triumph with emotional isolation, crafting a poignant commentary on the cost of obsession and the subtle ways in which people disappear from each other’s lives.

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"Invisible Signal"

By Harry Arabian

Three months ago, I made the discovery of a lifetime—a presence sensor unlike anything else in the market. It was wireless, waterproof, needed no battery, and had a built-in power harvester that drew energy from its environment. Years of research, false starts, and midnight scribbles on napkins had finally paid off. The design was mine, the prototype contract was mine, and now, the production qualification tests were underway. I should have been ecstatic.

But I wasn’t.

Somewhere between my first concept sketch and the delivery of the first gleaming samples, I had disappeared. Not physically, of course—I was still there, every morning before most arrived, every evening after the last had gone. But in another way, a more important way, I had vanished.

I stopped joining the morning coffee line, too busy outlining test protocols. The brief chats at the water cooler—those micro-moments of connection—became casualties of my schedule. I missed every walk to the corner deli, where Steve, Bob, and David and I used to argue over pastrami and share dumb jokes that didn’t need punchlines. It was always the same booth, always too cramped, always perfect.

Then came the moment that made the truth unavoidable.

I walked into the conference room for the final test review. The room was already packed—every seat filled around the round table. My sensor, my discovery, was the reason they were all there. And yet, as I stepped in, not a single head turned. Not a glance. I brushed past Steve, then Bob. David didn’t even blink. They just kept talking, laughing. It was like I wasn’t there at all.

I took the last seat, heart heavier than ever. My invention was meant to detect presence—subtle shifts in space, the kind of signals we all unconsciously give off just by existing. It could turn off lights in empty rooms, lower air conditioners in abandoned offices, help save the planet, one unnoticed moment at a time.

But in chasing presence, I had lost my own.

There’s a strange irony in that—creating a device to register life while letting your own slip quietly out of focus. I had poured myself so completely into this sensor that I became something like it: silent, efficient, and easily overlooked.

When the meeting ended, I stayed behind, pretending to study the data on the screen. Maybe tomorrow, I’d show up at the coffee bar again. Maybe I’d catch Steve by the elevator, ask if the deli still did that awful but somehow perfect egg salad.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to be seen again.

After all, I had built a sensor that could detect presence without a sound. Perhaps it was time I learned to do the same—with people.