Beneath the Noise

I - Static

Some nights, I wonder if anyone really knows me.

Not the “midnight voice of WaveFM” version of me — not the girl who makes heartbreak sound poetic and anxiety sound bearable. I mean me-me. The one who panics over small texts, forgets to eat when overwhelmed, and cries over her own playlists on the walk home.

That girl? She lives in silence. Hiding in the pauses between my broadcast voice.

And tonight, she’s a little louder than usual.

“WaveFM, 101.5,” I said into the mic, forcing a smile even though no one could see it. “It’s twelve-oh-one, and if you’re up because of heartbreak, homework, or hormonal imbalances — welcome back. It’s your girl Rafa. Let’s be miserable together, shall we?”

A lo-fi beat filled the booth, humming through my headset like white noise wrapped in sadness. I leaned back, fingers hovering over the next cue, my eyes drifting — again — to the guy sitting just outside the booth.

Nico Rivera.

Quiet. Tattooed. Always dressed like it’s fall even when it’s 32°C. Sketchbook in one hand, mystery in the other. He’s been assigned to help out during the late-night shifts, and honestly? I still don’t know what his deal is. He barely talks. He never laughs at my dumb jokes. And worst of all… he listens.

Like, really listens.

The kind of listening that makes you feel seen in ways you’re not sure you’re ready for.

I hated that.

Okay, maybe not hated — more like... feared.

I cleared my throat. “I got a message earlier from someone asking, ‘Do you ever talk about yourself on air?’ And, uh…” I paused, fingers tightening around the mic. “Not really. But maybe tonight I will.”

My heart thumped like I was saying something illegal. I never broke character. That was Rule #1. Rafaela Mendez, On-Air Girlboss™, was always in control. No glitches. No breakdowns. Just jokes and gentle comfort.

But tonight? I felt like unraveling.

“Sometimes,” I said, softer now, “you pretend you’re okay so well, even you forget you’re not.”

My finger hit the mute button like it burned.

What the hell was that, Rafa?

I stared at the blinking light in front of me, suddenly aware of the tears sitting too close behind my eyes. Damn it. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This booth was my fortress. My safe space. I couldn’t afford to fall apart here — not again.

And then… a knock.

I turned to the door and saw him — Nico — standing there with two cups in hand and that unreadable look on his face.

I opened the door halfway, trying to look composed. “What?”

“You okay?” he asked, calm as ever. No sarcasm. No pity. Just the question.

I blinked at him. “What, is that part of your intern job description? Emotionally assess the unstable DJ?”

He didn’t laugh. Just tilted his head slightly. “You sounded different tonight.”

My breath caught for a second.

Different.

Not bad. Not off. Just... different.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I looked down and noticed the cup he was holding out.

“Chamomile,” he said. “You mentioned last week that caffeine makes your anxiety worse after ten.”

Oh.

Oh no.

Why did that make my throat close up?

I reached for it without saying thank you, because if I opened my mouth, I might cry — and crying in front of Hot Sketchy Intern was not on tonight’s to-do list.

“Don’t read into it,” I muttered, already half-turned.

“I won’t,” he said, and something in his voice was… sincere. “But you should let someone hear you sometimes. Not just the radio.”

And then he walked away.

Like it was nothing.

But to me?

It wasn’t nothing.

I stared at the tea in my hands. The warmth soaked into my skin, and I suddenly realized how cold I’d been all day.

I went back inside the booth, sat down, and played the next track.

My voice didn’t come back for the rest of the night.

But my thoughts?

They wouldn’t shut up.

And for the first time in a long time… someone had noticed.