the undefined

Halfway in, Halfway Out

Chapter 4: Halfway in, Halfway Out

There’s a strange weight that comes with knowing something is ending soon, even if it hasn’t ended yet. Every hallway in the station, every click of the mic, every line of script started to feel like a farewell I wasn’t ready to say. Time was folding in on itself. And somewhere between writing scripts and editing promos, I began to feel suspended between two lives: the one I had known, and the one I was inching toward.

The radio station was louder that day. There was a buzz in the air. The big anniversary show was coming up, and everyone was scrambling. I was asked to help write a commemorative piece, something heartfelt. Something nostalgic.

It was strange, being asked to write about a place I hadn’t even known for long. But I poured my heart into it anyway. Wrote about sound. About the intimacy of voices through static. About how some things can reach your soul even if you’ve never seen the face behind the voice.

I turned it in late that afternoon, and the supervisor simply said, “Perfect. Don’t change a word.”

I sat back in my chair. For once, I didn’t second-guess myself.

Later that night, at home, I brought out the logbook. Each entry was like a breadcrumb trail leading back to a version of myself that had first walked through those studio doors, unsure and quiet.

Now, I could hold eye contact longer. Ask questions. Take initiative. I still had my fears, but they didn’t own me anymore.

My younger sister came into my room. “You’re always typing or writing,” she said.

I smiled. “I like to remember things.”

“Even the sad things?” she asked.

“Especially the sad things,” I replied.

Because in the sadness, I had grown. In the loneliness, I had found clarity. And in writing, I found myself.

On Friday, a guest speaker came to the station. A former intern turned OAP celebrity, now doing shows in Lagos. She was loud, stylish, and confident.

“Don’t let anyone tell you small stations don’t matter,” she said. “This is where you build muscle. This is where you learn to survive in silence.”

She looked straight at me when she said that.

“Who here writes?” she asked.

Raymond pointed. “Angel.”

The woman smiled. “Angel, let me read something you wrote.”

I handed her a script.

She scanned it. “You write like someone who reads a lot of heartbreak poetry.”

I laughed nervously.

“That’s a compliment,” she added.

And it stayed with me for days.

I started recording myself reading my own work in private. Not for air, just to hear it. To learn the rhythm of my own voice.

Some days I hated it. Some days I thought it sounded like someone else entirely. But I kept doing it anyway.

One evening, Raymond overheard.

“You know you sound better than some of the people on air, right?”

I waved him off.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Stop hiding.”

But I wasn’t hiding. Not anymore. I was unfolding.

A week later, I found out my father had remarried. I wasn’t told directly. I overheard it in a conversation between two of my cousins.

There was no anger. Just numbness.

I lay on my bed that night, staring at the ceiling.

I had written so many imaginary letters to him. Long ones. Angry ones. Forgiving ones. And now, all I could think was: “He started over without me.”

Raymond noticed my silence the next day.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” I lied.

He leaned closer. “You sure?”

I nodded.

He didn’t push. But he stayed close all day.

Sometimes, that’s all someone needs.

That Saturday, I walked into the market alone. No headphones. No distractions. Just me and the crowd.

I bought chin chin from a woman who smiled like she knew my story. I let myself wander into a bookstore I’d never noticed. I bought a used copy of The Alchemist.

And then I went to the small café where Raymond and I had once sat.

He wasn’t there.

But I ordered hot chocolate anyway.

And I wrote.

Letter I’ll never send #23: I don’t think I need closure. I just need space. Space to become who I’m meant to be.

Final week of internship.

The station buzzed with energy. We were preparing our final group project. I pitched an idea: a 10-minute audio documentary on “Voices Behind the Mic.”

We interviewed the janitor who had worked there for ten years. The receptionist who had once dreamed of being a presenter. A shy producer who composed all the background music.

It wasn’t glamorous. But it was real. And it was beautiful.

Everyone loved it. The supervisor even said it would be aired during the anniversary weekend.

My voice was in the outro.

When I heard it on air, I cried.

Floral hugged me tightly on the last day.

“Don’t disappear,” she said.

“I won’t.”

Raymond walked me to the gate.

“You’re gonna forget me,” he teased.

“Not likely.”

He pulled something from his bag—a small notebook.

“For your letters,” he said.

I opened to the first page. He had written:

Start sending them. Even if it’s just to yourself.

I smiled. “Thank you.”

He touched my shoulder lightly. “Don’t let this be the end.”

And it wasn’t.

It was the middle.

The messy, hopeful, unfinished middle.

Where I was halfway in… halfway out.

That night, back at home, I wrote again.

Letter I will send one day: Dear Angel. You made it through. You grew. You were soft, but you didn’t break. You bent toward light. And that’s enough.

When I woke up the next morning, I opened the notebook again. Not because I was sad. But because I was ready.

To begin again.

To write not just to remember—but to become.

To send letters. Even if no one replied.

Because some stories aren’t meant to be hidden forever.

Some are meant to echo.

And I was finally learning to speak.