Beneath the Noise

II - Dead Air

I hadn’t spoken to Nico since the night he gave me chamomile tea and told me I should let someone hear me too.

Three nights.

Seventy-two hours.

Roughly seven radio shifts, three panic attacks, and one extremely sad playlist later.

I wasn’t ignoring him, not really. I was just... avoiding anything that made me feel too much. And for some weird reason, he did.

He made everything feel too close to the surface.

And honestly? I didn’t like that.

So I kept to the booth. I kept to the playlist. I kept to the script.

Except tonight, things didn’t want to stay quiet.

At exactly 12:43 AM, I took a call from a listener who said her boyfriend of three years ghosted her right after she made him a Spotify playlist titled Songs That Sound Like Us.

I wish I were joking.

I played along, gave her advice, made her laugh a little. But the moment the call ended, I muted the mic, took off my headset, and pressed my forehead against the desk like I could just melt into it.

“Am I next?” I mumbled to no one. “Am I the next tragic playlist girl?”

And just like that — as if summoned by emotional vulnerability — he was there.

Nico.

Standing by the door of the booth.

Again.

“You okay?” he asked.

His voice was low, not nosy. Just curious.

God, why did that make me feel more exposed?

“You really have a talent for showing up when I least want to talk,” I said, trying to sound annoyed even though I kind of wasn’t.

“I brought sugar,” he replied, holding up a cup. “Not tea. Hot chocolate.”

My hand hesitated before taking it. The warmth seeped into my fingers before I even sipped.

“You remembered?” I asked.

He raised a brow. “You said you liked it after hard days. And that girl’s story sounded like a ten out of ten on the emotional damage scale.”

“Eight,” I said quietly. “She didn’t get cheated on. That’s a two-point deduction.”

He smiled — just a little. The kind you almost miss.

I didn’t.

By 1:06 AM, the show was on autopilot. I had scheduled a block of music long enough to breathe without talking. Nico sat cross-legged near the corner, sketchbook on his knees again.

I stared at him from behind the glass.

For someone who barely spoke, he somehow took up too much space.

“What do you keep drawing?” I asked suddenly, through the intercom.

He looked up. “People.”

“Like portraits?”

“Not really. Just moments.”

He flipped the page toward me.

It was a drawing of a girl with headphones on, hunched over a mic.

Me.

Caught mid-thought. Eyes somewhere else.

I stared at it for a full five seconds before looking away.

I didn’t know how to receive that. Not when someone sees you in ways you work hard to hide.

After the show ended at 2:00 AM, we walked out together. The city felt too quiet again — the kind of silence that presses on your chest.

“You know,” I said after a beat, “I’m not good at... this.”

“This?”

“Letting people in. Letting them stay.”

He looked at me like he wanted to say something — like he almost did.

But instead, he just nodded.

Like he understood.

Like he wasn’t going to force it.

And somehow, that hurt more than if he had walked away.

Three days.

That’s all it had been.

But the booth felt different now.

And I hated how much I noticed.