۶ৎ 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶 𝓪𝓽 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓼 .ʚɞ

Then there’s your club’s radio show. Every week, you step into the studio and become someone else, the calm, steady host who reads messages, plays song requests, and keeps listeners company. Behind the microphone, everything feels simple. You know what to say, how to fill silences, how to sound confident even when you’re not. The studio becomes a small world where emotions are easier to handle, as long as they belong to someone else.

Outside of it, things are messier.

Because Taesan is always there.

He walks with you to the booth before every broadcast, leaning against the wall while you prepare your notes, sometimes teasing you about how seriously you take the show. When it ends, he’s waiting again, like he never left, ready to walk home together as if it’s just part of both your routines now.

But Taesan has never been easy to read. Some days he’s attentive in small, almost invisible ways, remembering what snacks you like, slowing his steps to match yours, saving you a seat without mentioning it. Other days, he feels distant, responding with short answers and that neutral expression that makes you wonder if you imagined everything.

The mixed signals keep you suspended somewhere between friendship and something more.

So you keep your feelings to yourself, tucked safely behind casual conversations and shared walks home, pretending you’re okay with things staying exactly the way they are, even when part of you wishes they wouldn’t.

Being friends with him is safe. It’s familiar. And it’s maddening, because sometimes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something real, and sometimes you feel like he’s just… a shadow, steady but untouchable.

Every week, you host the show, and every week, he’s there. As a good friend. Constant companion. Mystery in motion. And every week, you wonder if he’ll ever show the emotions you’ve been craving, or if you’ll keep watching him, quietly, from the edge of your own heart.

Valentine’s week was always a little different at the radio station. The usual weekly confession segment becomes louder, more vibrant, and somehow much more tense. Everyone on campus seems to know about it, whispers in the hallway, friends teasing each other about their crushes, even posters on the walls advertising th Valentine’s special. The hotline rings faster, the waiting room outside the booth feels almost busier than the broadcast itself, and your cue cards suddenly seem too small to hold all the names, notes, and reminders you’ve made for each caller.

This week, every call carries extra weight. People aren’t just confessing quietly anymore, theyre daring, dramatic, nervous in ways that make the station hum with electricity. Some callers laugh and stumble over their words, others speak with quiet confidence. And behind the voice changer, you hear raw emotion that cuts through, more intensely than any other normal week.

For you, the Valentine’s Special program is exciting, but also nerve-wracking. You’re still the host as usual, calm, composed, guiding each confession gently, but the tension in the hallway and the excitement of the listeners feel almost like a storm pressing against the studio walls. Every ring of the hotline makes your heart skip a beat, not just for the callers, but because the week carries an unspoken anticipation someone might finally say something real.

Taesan, as always, is by your side. Walking with you to the booth has become a ritual, and during Valentine’s week, it feels more significant. There’s a quiet tension in the air when you walk together, the usual comfortable silence feels charged, as if even the smallest glance between you could spark something. He doesn’t comment on the extra attention the show is getting, doesn’t tease or reveal emotion, but his presence is steady, grounding, and somehow… slightly closer than usual.

The Valentine’s program isn’t just another broadcast. It’s a stage, a ritual, and a slow unraveling of all the mixed signals, quiet observations, and hidden feelings you’ve both been holding back. Every caller, every laugh, every pause is a reminder that love, even the quiet, unspoken kind, can be right under your nose, waiting for the right moment to finally be seen.

By the time evening arrives, most classrooms are already dark, the hallways quieter than usual except for the soft hum of vending machines and the occasional echo of footsteps. The student media room, tucked at the far end of the second floor, is one of the only places still lit. A small paper sign taped to the door reads “ON AIR — 7PM”, slightly crooked from being removed and stuck back on every week.

Inside, the radio booth glows in warm white light. The microphone sits at the center of the desk like it’s waiting patiently, headphones coiled neatly beside it. The control panel flickers with tiny colored buttons, red, green, orange, all familiar now after months of hosting the weekly radio segment.

You learned how to respond gently. Carefully. Kindly.

You became good at pretending love stories didn’t affect you.

Especially when Taesan was standing right outside the booth.

He always walks you there.

Not in a dramatic way. Not like he ever announces it. It just… happens. When the clock hits 6:50PM, he appears at your classroom door or outside the clubroom, hands in his hoodie pockets like it’s routine.

“Let’s go,” he’ll say.

And you’ll go.

The walk to the media room is short, barely three minutes, but it’s become its own quiet ritual. His steps are slow, matching yours without needing to think about it. Sometimes he talks about random things, like a new song he found or how badly he did on a math test. But sometimes he says nothing at all.

Today is one of the quieter days.

The hallway lights flicker slightly as you walk. Taesan kicks lightly at a loose floor tile as you pass over it, something he always does without realizing.

“You nervous?” he asks, voice casual and composed.

“Not really,” you reply, re-adjusting the stack of cue cards in your hands for the nth time now.

You’re lying.

Not about the show, hosting doesn’t scare you anymore after how many times you have done it, but it’s about the way he always shows up. The way he remembers your schedule better than you do. The way he waits outside the booth until the broadcast begins, like he’s making sure nothing goes wrong. The way he knows you more than he knows himself.

Taesan has always been like this. Close, but unreadable.

He remembers small things, what snacks you like, when your tests are, how cold the booth gets, but when conversations drift toward feelings or anything personal, he slips away from them effortlessly, like he was never part of them to begin with.

Sometimes it feels like standing near a closed door, knowing someone is on the other side, but never hearing the lock turn.

── ✦۶ৎ

When you reach the media room, he pushes the door open for you.

The familiar smell of electronics and old paper fills the air.

“You’ll do fine,” Taesan says, leaning against the wall near the booth entrance. He says it the same way every week, like a line he doesn’t even realize he’s memorized by now.

You nod, setting your things down inside.

Through the glass window of the booth, you can still see him, arms folded loosely, expression calm, eyes following your movements as you put on the headphones and test the microphone.

Three minutes before broadcast.

The red CALL LINE READY light switches on.

Your chest tightens a little.

Because this special segment is about confessions.

And every week from now, you’ll listen to strangers talk about love, about waiting, hoping, misunderstanding signals, being too afraid to ask what someone really means.

Every week, you’ll wonder if you’re any different.

The Valentine’s broadcast is always busier than usual.

Even before the show officially begins, the hotline indicator blinks every few seconds, a small red light flashing on the console like an impatient heartbeat. You can already hear faint static from queued calls through the headphones.

Outside the booth, Taesan is in his usual spot, leaning against the wall with his arms loosely folded, one foot resting against the baseboard. He gives you a small nod of encouragement through the glass when you glance up.

You fidgeted with the headset, the soft padding pressing over your ears, and glanced at the microphone in front of you like it might somehow reassure you if you stared long enough. 

It was the last week of January, and your school had just launched its Valentine’s Special confession radio Segment, a weekly live broadcast where students could send in anonymous messages to their crushes.

The rules were simple but strict: every caller had to use a voice changer, and no one was allowed to reveal their name on air. The administration wanted the fun and suspense to stay intact, and somehow, it had caught the attention of nearly half the student body overnight. When you had arrived in the morning, the bulletin boards were plastered with little pink and red flyers, each one urging students to “Call in your heart!”

Sitting behind the booth’s glass window, you could hear the faint hum of students passing by in the hallway. Some peeked in curiously, waving at you through the glass, but most were too focused on their own Valentine’s plans. The buttons and knobs on the desk felt familiar, comforting in a way, though your stomach still fluttered nervously. You were running the segment every week, responsible for guiding the conversations, reading live messages, and keeping the energy upbeat. Your fingers tapped lightly against the table as you ran through your mental checklist: headset on, mic adjusted, script open, phone line ready.

“Don’t mess this up,” you whispered, flipping through your small script. “Just read the lines, keep it light, and for the love of chocolate, don’t laugh too hard at the weird calls.”

The clock clicks to 7:00PM.

The ON AIR sign glows red

“Good evening, everyone!” you said into the mic, trying to sound cheerful and confident. “Welcome to our very first episode of our Valentine’s Confession Radio! This is your chance to tell someone how you feel… anonymously, of course. Everyone uses a voice changer, so no one will ever know it’s you, unless, you know… they guess really really well.” You grinned at your own joke and adjusted the mic.

The first few calls trickled in slowly. Most were typical: shy dedications, over-the-top declarations of love, and a few hilarious attempts that made you laugh behind your headset. You read each message aloud, trying to keep the energy light and playful. Some callers stuttered and stumbled over their altered voices; others made you guess wildly who they might be, which had the audience in the classroom across the hall giggling. It quickly became clear that the segment wasn’t just about confessions, it was a game, and everyone loved playing along.

By the final segment, your voice is slightly tired but still warm.

“Alright,” you say, adjusting your headphones. “We’ll just have time to take one last caller for tonight’s Valentine’s special.”

The line connects almost immediately.

Static hums softly.

Then a voice speaks, lower than the others, calmer, but still disguised by the filter.

“I… don’t think I’ll ever confess properly,” the caller says.

You straighten up a little.

“That’s okay,” you reply. “You can say anything you’d like here.”

There’s a short pause, like they’re choosing their words carefully.

“I like someone I’ve known for a long time,” the caller continues. “We walk home together all the time. They’re… kind of oblivious...”

You smile a little at that. It sounds familiar in the vague way many confessions do. Sweet and cute.

“They laugh when they’re nervous,” the caller adds quietly.

“And they always tap their cue cards against the desk before answering a call.”

Your hand freezes for half a second on the edge of the console.

Then you glance down.

Your cue cards are in your hand.

You had been tapping them without noticing.

You stop immediately, setting them flat on the desk.

But the moment passes quickly. Plenty of people have nervous habits. It doesn’t mean anything.

You recover, voice still gentle. “It sounds like you know them very well.”

Another pause.

“…Yeah.”

The caller doesn’t say anything else.

After a few seconds, the line clicks dead.

You blink at the control panel, waiting to see if it reconnects, but it doesn’t.

“…And that was our final call for tonight,” you say, finishing the broadcast professionally despite the strange quiet feeling in your chest. “Happy Valentine’s week, everyone.”

You lower the slider.

The ON AIR sign switches off.

The booth suddenly feels smaller without the background noise of voices.

You leaned back in your chair and exhaled, forcing a small laugh. “Okay… that was… kind of cute, I guess,” you said to yourself, tapping the mic lightly. “Someone out there likes someone who smiles when they’re nervous. Could be literally anyone. Totally generic. Nothing to think about.”

You shook your head, pushing the thought away and focusing on the stack of messages waiting for next week’s broadcast. “Just part of the game,” you muttered, scrolling through your notes. “No big deal. Just another shy confession. People love this anonymous thing, that’s all.”

Even as you packed up the booth at the end of the day, the flutter in your chest lingered faintly, a warm little buzz that felt like excitement, but you quickly shrugged it off. “Okay, no. Y/n. Stop imagining things. It’s just a random student. That’s all.”

You smiled faintly, shook out your hands, and left the booth, already thinking ahead to next week’s broadcast. Little did you know, that shy, voice-altered confession was only the first of many hints you’d be blissfully unaware were meant for you.

── ✦۶ৎ

When you step out, Taesan is already standing up straight, rigid even.

“Done?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He reaches over and takes the stack of cue cards from your hands without asking, tapping them lightly against the wall to straighten them before handing them back, another small habit of his.

“You had a lot of callers today,” he says.

“Valentine’s effect,” you reply with a shrug.

He hums in agreement.

Nothing about his expression changes.

Outside, the night air is cool. The school gate is already half-closed, and the streets are quieter than usual. Streetlights stretch down the sidewalk in long yellow pools of light.

The walk home is familiar. Comfortable. Snug even.

You and Taesan have been neighbors for years, houses right next to each other, separated only by a low fence and a shared eggplant plantation that drops eggplant into both yards during the summer, which he always makes sure to make a disgusted face at.

“Your last caller was weird,” Taesan says suddenly.

You glance at him. “Weird?”

“They didn’t actually confess.”

“Not everyone does, it doesn’t mean that they're weird.”

He shrugs. “Still weird.”

You let out a small laugh.

The sound comes out a little too quick, a little too light.

Without realizing it, you rub the back of your neck, another nervous habit.

Taesan notices. He always notices small things like that.

But he doesn’t say anything.

The two of you reach your houses, stopping at the familiar point where the path splits.

“See you tomorrow,” you say.

“Yeah,” Taesan replies.

He lingers for half a second, like he might say something else, his lips pursed.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his mouth shuts and he turns and walks toward his front door, hands in his hoodie pockets.

You watch him go for a moment before heading inside, the caller’s words faintly echoing in your mind, strange, specific, but easy enough to ignore.

After all, lots of people laugh when they’re nervous.

It doesn’t mean anything.

── ✦۶ৎ

The second Valentine’s broadcast the next week feels calmer at first.

Not quieter, the hotline still lights up steadily, but calmer in the way routines settle back into place after something unusual. The strange final caller from last week lingers briefly in your mind before being replaced by scripts, cue cards, and the familiar hum of equipment warming up.

Taesan walks you to the booth again, like always.

He arrives a few minutes before six-fifty, knocking lightly on your classroom’s doorframe when he sees you inside preparing.

“Broadcast day,” he says.

“Broadcast day,” you echo back.

The walk down the hallway is easy, filled with small conversation about homework deadlines and a teacher who forgot to collect assignments. Nothing important. Nothing heavy. Just the kind of talk that fills space comfortably.

When you reach the booth, Taesan takes his usual spot outside the glass window.

You push open the door to the radio booth, the familiar smell of electronics, paper, and faint cleaning spray greeting you again. Your headset feels snug over your ears as you adjust the microphone. Another week, another round of Valentine’s confessions. You settle into your chair, flipping through the notes for today’s broadcast, and mutter to yourself, “Okay, you got this. Just don’t sound too nervous. It’s just voices. Voices don’t bite.”

When the clock strikes broadcast time, you hit the “On Air” button. The little red light blinks, and your voice flows out across the school’s speakers:

“Good evening, everyone! Welcome back to our weekly Valentine’s confession broadcast! Remember, all calls are anonymous and voice-altered, so don’t worry about anyone finding out your secrets… unless they’re psychic or extremely lucky.” You chuckle softly, leaning forward on the desk. “Now, let’s see who’s brave enough to speak their heart today!”

The first few calls are playful and silly, one caller dedicates a handmade, glittered heart to someone who clearly sits on the first row of the classroom, another whispers a dramatic, overly serious poem that makes you giggle, and a third insists on singing a line from a cheesy love song through the voice changer. You keep up your playful commentary, teasing lightly, “Wow, okay, someone’s really going all out. Are we sending chocolates with that poem too?”

You laugh softly at the right moments, offering reassurance when voices start to shake.

Between calls, you glance up.

Taesan is sitting in the chair outside the studio, just like he always does, leaning back slightly, eyes drifting toward the ceiling while he waits. One leg bounces slowly against the floor, a quiet, familiar rhythm you’ve come to associate with him. He doesn’t look bored or impatient. Just comfortable. Like sitting there is part of his routine too.

He’s been in that same spot since before the broadcast started, and he’ll probably still be there when it ends.

He always is.

For a second, you let yourself watch him through the glass, the steady presence grounding you before the next call comes in. Then the hotline light blinks again, and you turn back to the microphone.

Eventually, the broadcast clock nears the end again.

“Alright,” you say, adjusting your mic. “We have time for one last caller.”

The hotline connects almost immediately.

The same soft distortion fills your headphones.

Your stomach tightens just a little, not because you recognize the voice, but because something about the silence before they speak feels familiar.

“…Hi.”

“Hello,” you reply gently. “Welcome back.”

You don’t know why you said back.

But the caller doesn’t question it.

“I still don’t think I can confess,” they say.

Your fingers rest lightly on the cue cards.

“That’s okay,” you say. “You can take your time.”

A quiet breath crackles through the speaker.

“I’ll give you a hint as to who I am, I hum songs without realizing it,” the caller continues. “Usually when I’m thinking or lost in thought.”

Your eyes drift toward the booth window.

The chair outside is empty now. Taesan must have stepped away, maybe to the bathroom, maybe to grab a drink. The absence feels strange, like something small in the room has shifted out of place.

You turn back to the console.

“Continuing one, the person I like,” the caller adds, voice softened by the voice changer, “they always say ‘okay, okay’ to everything. Even when they don’t really agree.”

You smile slightly and a small, nervous laugh slips from you before you can stop it.

That could be anyone.

Half the school says “okay okay” just to end conversations faster. And humming without noticing is normal too, you’ve heard people do it in class, in the hallway, in the library. Who could the caller be and who do they like?

“They sound comforting to be around,” you say.

Another pause.

“…They are.”

The line clicks off again.

No goodbye.

Just silence.

You stare at the console for a moment before finishing the segment.

“And that was our final call tonight. Thank you for sharing your stories with us.”

The broadcast ends.

The red light switches off.

And yet… even as you tidy up the booth, the flutter returns faintly, teasing at the edges of your awareness. A small smile tugs at your lips as you think about the fun of guessing who might be behind the mysterious voice. There’s something strangely addictive about it, the anonymity, the little glimpses into someone else noticing someone else.

You stand, adjusting your headset one last time, and whisper softly to yourself, “Well… I guess we’ll see what they do next week. Could be anyone. Totally random. Just part of the game.”

Little do you know, the next week’s hints will feel even more specific… and you still won’t see them coming.

── ✦۶ৎ

When you step out of the booth, Taesan is already standing back there.

“You’re done?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He stretches his arms slightly, like he’d been sitting too long. But it also looked rigidly fake.

“You looked tired halfway through,” he says.

“Did I?”

“You always press your headphones tighter when you’re tired.”

You blink.

“I do not.”

“Yes you do.”

His tone is matter-of-fact, not teasing.

You roll your eyes, but a small smile slips through anyway.

The night air feels warmer than last week.

You walk home together again, footsteps falling into rhythm without trying.

Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle passes, its sound fading quickly.

“That last caller came back,” you say casually.

Taesan shrugs. “Guess they still can’t confess.”

“They’re very observant.”

“Mhm.”

You kick lightly at a pebble on the sidewalk.

“Humming songs isn’t that special,” you add. “Lots of people do that.”

“Yeah,” Taesan says.

“And saying ‘okay okay’ is basically everyone.”

“True.”

His answers are short, but not dismissive. Just… neutral.

The streetlights pass overhead one by one.

You don’t notice yourself humming quietly under your breath until you stop at the split between your houses.

Taesan notices.

He always does.

But like last week, he says nothing.

“Goodnight,” you say.

“Night.”

He lingers for a second again, just long enough to feel like something might happen, then turns toward his house.

You head inside, thinking briefly about the caller.

Specific, but still ordinary.

Coincidences happen.

There’s no reason to think the caller knows you.

None at all.

── ✦۶ৎ

By the third week of the Valentine’s segment, the “mystery caller” has become a thing.

You didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did.

Messages started appearing in the radio club’s anonymous suggestion box earlier that day.

“Is the same caller coming back?”

“Do they ever confess for real?”

“Who are they talking about?”

Even before the broadcast begins, the energy feels different, lighter, curious, like listeners are waiting for the final call instead of the first.

Taesan walks you to the booth again, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets like always. The routine hasn’t changed, even if the show has.

“You’re trending,” he says casually as you reach the media room.

“I am not trending,” you reply.

“The mystery caller is.”

You shake your head, pushing the booth door open.

“That’s not the point of the segment.”

Taesan just hums in response, leaning against the wall beside the window.

── ✦۶ৎ

The show begins normally.

Confessions fill the first half of the hour. someone asking their crush to the Valentine’s dance, someone admitting they’ve liked the same person since elementary school, someone nervously reading a prepared script before hanging up immediately after.

Between calls, you notice something new.

More pauses.

More anticipation.

Like everyone listening knows what’s coming.

Eventually, the clock nears the end of the broadcast again.

You adjust the microphone slightly.

“Alright,” you say. “We’ll take one final call tonight.”

The hotline connects instantly.

Your chest tightens before the caller even speaks.

“…Hi.”

The same voice changer. The same calm, careful tone.

“Welcome back,” you say softly.

Outside the booth, Taesan is gone again, you try moving your head slightly to find him but to no avail, maybe he had to go to the bathroom…

“I think people know it’s me calling every week,” the caller says.

You let out a small laugh. “You might have some regular listeners.”

“They’re guessing who I like.”

Your fingers rest still on the desk.

“That sounds stressful.”

“It’s fine,” the caller says. “They’ll never guess.”

A short pause follows.

Then:

“They don’t know I watch them through the studio window.”

Your breath catches.

For the first time during a broadcast, you hesitate long enough for silence to stretch across the air.

Just one second.

Two.

You glance up instinctively.

Through the glass window of the booth, Taesan is back in sight, standing exactly where he always stands, relaxed posture, neutral expression, eyes already on you like he noticed the pause.

Your heart skips, then settles just as quickly.

Of course the caller watches from somewhere else. The media room window faces the hallway. Anyone passing by could look in and it could be anyone of your club mates that they were looking at.

You refocus.

“That sounds like someone very important to you,” you say carefully.

“…Yeah,” the caller replies.

The line disconnects.

── ✦۶ৎ

You end the broadcast with slightly slower movements than usual, lowering the volume slider and removing your headphones with care.

The booth feels unusually quiet.

When you step outside, Taesan is exactly the same as always.

“You paused,” he says.

“Did I?”

“For a while.”

You exhale, half-laughing.

“That caller is getting more dramatic every week.”

“Mhm,” Taesan responds.

No teasing. No curiosity. Just acknowledgement.

The walk home feels slower tonight.

Not awkward, things were never awkward with Taesan, just thoughtful.

Streetlights glow against the pavement, and the distant sound of someone’s TV drifts from an open window as you pass by the houses near yours.

“You think they’ll confess next week?” you ask.

“Maybe,” Taesan says.

“Everyone’s so curious about it now.”

“People like stories.”

You sigh, the sound turning into a small smile.

“You always say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re observing everything from far away.”

Taesan shrugs.

You reach the split between your homes again.

The familiar pause.

The same one every night.

You look at him, really look at him for a moment, at the calm expression he always wears, at the way he never seems nervous, never unsure, never emotional the way callers on your show are.

Then you sigh, smiling to yourself.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Taesan says.

He turns toward his house again, unhurried.

And like the previous weeks, you tell yourself the same thing.

It’s just a caller.

Just a coincidence.

Nothing more.

── ✦۶ৎ

Valentine’s Day arrives with a kind of nervous excitement that lingers in the air all day.

You notice it in the hallways, pink paper bags on desks, flowers being hidden behind backs, friends whispering louder than usual. Even the media club room feels different when you step inside that evening, like the walls themselves are waiting.

Because tonight is the final Valentine’s broadcast.

And everyone knows it.

The anonymous message board is full. The hotline indicator starts blinking before you’ve even finished setting up. Someone taped a small heart sticker onto the ON AIR sign.

Today's Valentine’s finale program also draws more listeners. Students sneak into the hallways to hear snippets through the speakers. Phones are pressed against ears in classrooms. Everyone is curious, especially about the mystery caller who has returned week after week. Their observations, always small and personal, become almost legendary, and rumors start spreading: “Who could it be?” “Is it someone close to the host?” “Could it really be Taesan?”

For you, it’s strange to feel both excited and nervous. Every week, you’ve guided others through their confessions, but this week, your own heart is being tested. Every observation the caller makes, every detail about you that only someone who knows you well could notice, sends a small jolt of confusion and anticipation through you. And with Taesan walking beside you, the line between friendship, curiosity, and something more feels impossibly blurred.

Taesan walks you to the booth again, just like the last three weeks.

Routine. Steady. Normal.

“You’re famous now,” he says lightly as you stop outside the door.

“Stop saying that,” you reply, though you can’t help smiling a little.

“They’re all waiting for the mystery caller.”

You sigh, adjusting your cue cards. “I don’t even know if they’ll call.”

Taesan opens the booth door for you.

“They will,” he says.

His voice sounds certain. Weird…

── ✦۶ৎ

The broadcast begins.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you say into the microphone. “Welcome to our final confession segment of the week.”

Calls flood in.

Some are cheerful confessions delivered between laughter. Some are shy. Some are dramatic in a way only Valentine’s Day can encourage. One caller sings half a love song before panicking and hanging up.

Outside the booth, more people than usual gather in the hallway to listen through the small speaker near the control desk. You can see silhouettes moving past the glass window, slowing down instead of walking by.

They’re waiting.

You are too.

── ✦۶ৎ

The clock ticks closer to the end of the hour.

Your hands feel slightly colder than usual against the desk.

“Alright,” you say, voice softer now. “We have time for one final call.”

The hotline connects immediately.

The hallway outside goes still.

Even through the soundproof glass, you can feel it, people holding their breath.

“…Hi,” the familiar distorted voice says.

Your heart beats harder than you expect.

“Welcome back,” you reply.

A small crackle of static fills the silence.

Then the caller speaks.

“I’ve been calling every week because I didn’t know how to say this in person.”

Your fingers curl slightly against the edge of the console.

“The person I like is the radio host,” the caller continues.

Your breath stops.

“L/n Y/n.”

The world feels very, very quiet.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

The line disconnects.

No hesitation. No extra explanation. Just the soft click of the call ending.

For a moment, you forget how to speak.

Then training takes over.

“…Thank you for calling,” you say gently into the microphone, voice steadier than you feel. “And thank you to everyone who shared their feelings with us this week. The Valentine’s Special is officially over.”

You finish the broadcast carefully, hands moving on instinct.

The ON AIR light switches off.

The silence afterward feels enormous.

── ✦۶ৎ

When you step out of the booth, the hallway is buzzing.

Students whisper excitedly, trying to guess who it was. Someone laughs nervously. Another person insists they knew it all along.

But the noise fades when you see him.

Taesan is still there.

Leaning against the wall beside the booth door, exactly where he always waits. Hands in his hoodie pockets, expression calm, so normal it almost feels strange after what just happened.

“You looked like you forgot how to talk for a second,” he says.

You blink at him. “I did not.”

“You did,” he replies, pushing himself off the wall. “Right after the call ended.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he continues before you can.

“You were tapping the desk with your fingers again.”

You stop.

Because you had been.

You don’t remember noticing it yourself.

“…You always do that when you don’t know what to say,” Taesan adds casually, already turning toward the hallway exit.

The comment lands oddly in your chest.

Too specific.

But you shake it off and follow him outside.

── ✦۶ৎ

The night air feels cool against your face as you leave the school gate. The world feels quieter than it did an hour ago, like the excitement of Valentine’s Day has already begun settling down.

As always, you and Taesan split the wired earbuds between you.

Left ear for you. Right ear for him.

The familiar routine settles over the two of you almost instantly. A soft song plays between you, just loud enough to fill the silence without interrupting it.

You try to focus on the music.

But your thoughts keep circling back.

The person I like is the radio host.

It could be anyone. The caller never revealed their identity. The voice changer made sure of that.

Still…

“They knew my name,” you say quietly.

Taesan nods once. “Yeah.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down at all.”

“Not really.”

You glance at him.

His expression is relaxed, eyes forward, walking at the same steady pace as always. If he feels anything about the confession, he isn’t showing it.

You’ve always been good at hiding your feelings from him.

You learned to be.

After all, Taesan never shows his.

“…It’s weird,” you admit. “They noticed such small things.”

“Like what?”

You think for a moment.

“That laughing when I’m nervous, thing,” you say. “And the cue cards.”

Taesan hums quietly in understanding.

Then, without looking at you, he says:

“You always tuck your hair behind your ear when you think no one’s looking.”

Your steps falter.

The words hit you like a dropped glass.

That—

That was something the caller said during the second week.

Not exactly the same sentence, but the same kind of observation. The same careful noticing of tiny, unconscious habits.

Your heartbeat quickens.

“…That’s random,” you manage.

Taesan shrugs.

“Not really.”

Silence stretches between you, filled only by the music in your shared earbuds.

Your mind begins replaying everything.

Your grip tightens slightly around the earbud wire.

Beside you, Taesan hums softly along with the song, barely audible, completely unconscious.

Just like the caller described.

You look at him.

Really look.

And for the first time, the pieces begin to fit together.

Two and two.

The weekly walks to the booth.

Waiting outside every broadcast.

Noticing things no one else does.

The certainty in his voice when he said the caller would show up.

Your chest feels suddenly too full.

Taesan notices you staring and turns his head slightly.

“What?” he asks.

The same calm voice.

The same unreadable expression.

But now, it feels different.

Now, you’re not sure how you ever missed it.

The thought settles slowly, like something fragile lowering into place.

You don’t stop walking, but your mind drifts backward through the past few weeks, replaying each broadcast in careful detail.

They laugh when they’re nervous.

You think about the way your voice always comes out a little too bright when you don’t know how to respond to callers.

They tap their cue cards against the desk.

Your fingers had frozen when the caller mentioned it, because you hadn’t even realized you were doing it.

They hum songs without realizing.

Right now, Taesan is still humming quietly beside you, matching the melody in your shared earbuds.

They say “okay, okay” to everything.

You did that earlier today. And yesterday. And probably every day this week.

They don’t know I watch them through the studio window.

Your chest tightens.

Taesan has stood outside that window every single broadcast.

Every week.

Without fail.

The realization comes all at once.

Your cheeks grow warm, but you keep your voice steady, softer than usual.

“…Hang on,” you say.

Taesan glances at you.

“Are you the anonymous caller?”

── ✦۶ৎ

Taesan slows to a stop.

For once, he doesn’t answer immediately.

The music in your shared earbuds keeps playing between you, filling the quiet space where words should be.

You watch him carefully, your heart beating faster with every second he doesn’t speak.

Then he smiles.

Small. Shy. The kind of smile you almost never see from him, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly, eyes soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

He looks down for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“…Yeah,” he says quietly.

It’s barely above a whisper.

But it’s enough.

“It’s me.”

Taesan exhales slowly after saying it, like he’s been holding that breath for weeks.

For a moment, he keeps his eyes on the ground instead of you.

“I didn’t mean for it to become… a whole thing,” he admits, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. “The radio calls.”

He lets out a small, nervous laugh, the kind that sounds unfamiliar coming from him.

“The first time, I just… couldn’t say it to you directly.”

His fingers tighten slightly around the earbud wire between you.

“You’re always listening to other people’s confessions,” he continues. “You always know what to say to them. But when it’s about you…” He shakes his head faintly. “I didn’t know how to start.”

The streetlight above you hums softly.

“I thought the voice changer would make it easier,” Taesan says. “Like I could practice saying it without messing everything up.”

He glances at you then, cautious.

“But every week, I still couldn’t finish.”

His shoulders lift in a small shrug.

“So I just… kept calling and calling.”

You remember the pauses now, the way the caller always seemed to stop right before saying too much.

“I didn’t think people would notice,” he adds. “Or start waiting for it.”

Another quiet breath leaves him.

“I wasn’t trying to be dramatic or anything. I just…” He hesitates, searching for words he clearly isn’t used to saying. “I like being near you. Walking you to the studio. Waiting outside. Walking home together.”

His voice softens even more.

“I notice things because I’m always looking at you.”

The honesty lands gently, but heavily.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” Taesan says. “Since before the radio show even started.”

He gives a small, embarrassed smile.

“I just didn’t think you’d ever see me that way.”

The confession isn’t grand or polished, no dramatic lines, no perfect timing.

Just Taesan, standing next to you under a streetlight, finally saying what he’s been holding in for so long.

“And today was the last broadcast,” he murmurs. “So I couldn’t avoid it anymore.”

You freeze for a moment, processing his words, his voice, the way he’s looking at you, soft, nervous, completely sincere.

Then your chest tightens in a way that’s warm, familiar, and undeniable.

Slowly, almost instinctively, you take a step closer. The earbuds still share music between you, but it feels like the world has quieted down to just the two of you.

You meet his eyes and smile, the kind of smile that carries everything you’ve been holding back, all the quiet moments you never dared to admit.

“I’ve… always liked you too,” you whisper.

He blinks, a little stunned, and for the first time, his usual calm expression falters. A small, relieved laugh escapes him.

You close the distance completely. He leans in slightly, just enough for your foreheads to almost touch. Your shared breaths mingle in the cool night air.

And then, soft, hesitant, perfectly gentle, he presses his lips to yours. Just for a moment, testing, confirming, and when you respond, it becomes real.

It’s not flashy or dramatic. No shouting, no fireworks. Just the two of you, under the streetlight, letting weeks of unsaid feelings finally speak.

When you pull back slightly, foreheads still touching, you both laugh quietly, hearts racing.

“You make everything sound so… easy,” Taesan murmurs.

You shake your head, smiling. “No. You do.”

The night feels warmer now, lighter, and the walk home doesn’t feel routine anymore, it feels like the beginning of something that’s been waiting all along.

── ✦۶ৎ

The two of you fall into an easy, unspoken rhythm as you walk.

The street is quiet tonight, the occasional rustle of leaves and distant hum of a passing car the only sounds besides the soft music flowing through your shared earbuds.

Your hands brush once. Then again. Slowly, almost without thinking, your fingers intertwine with his. No words are exchanged. No declarations needed. Just the steady warmth of him beside you, the faint squeeze of his hand reassuring and real.

Your chest feels light and full all at once. Relief mingles with happiness, a quiet smile tugging at your lips. The mystery caller? Solved. The weeks of uncertainty, the small, detailed observations, the quiet longing, it all makes sense now.

You glance at Taesan briefly. His gaze is calm, but the subtle lift of his eyebrows and the way his hand holds yours tells you everything you need to know.

The music hums softly, filling the space around you, but it’s as if the world has narrowed to just this, just the two of you, walking side by side, hands together, hearts quietly racing, and nothing else matters.

You smile to yourself again, savoring the moment, letting it exist without a single word.

By the time you reach your house, the music in the shared earbuds has long faded into the background.

The familiar gate stands in front of you, the porch light already on. You both slow to a stop without really planning to, hands still loosely together until your fingers separate naturally.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Taesan shifts his weight, then lets out a small breath, the kind that sounds like he’s still nervous, even after everything he’s already said tonight.

He smiles at you again. Soft. Almost shy.

Before turning to leave, he reaches out and lightly touches your shoulder, like he’s making sure you’re really there.

“Wait,” he says.

You look up.

His voice is quieter now, but steadier than before.

“…Will you be my girlfriend?”

The question hangs in the air between you, simple and sincere.

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes,” you say, smiling.

Relief spreads across his face instantly, visible in the way his shoulders relax, in the small laugh that escapes him. He steps closer again, slower this time, giving you enough time to lean in too.

The kiss is unhurried and gentle, softer than before, less nervous, more certain. The kind of moment that feels warm and steady instead of overwhelming.

When you pull apart, neither of you says anything right away.

There’s no need.

Taesan gives your shoulder one last light squeeze before stepping back toward the path leading to his house.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says.

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.”

You watch him go until he disappears through his gate.

Then you stand there for a moment longer, heart full and calm in a way it hasn’t been for a long time.

The routine hasn’t disappeared, the same walk home, the same neighbor next door, the same quiet street.

But now, something has changed.

The friendship you’ve always relied on has begun to bloom into something new, something gentle, certain, and quietly yours.

── ✦۶ৎ

EPILOGUE: 

One year later, Valentine’s Day feels different.

Not louder or more dramatic, just warmer.

The radio studio looks the same as it always has: the slightly worn chair in the booth, the stack of cue cards on the desk, the soft glow of the ON AIR sign waiting to be switched on. But now, the space holds memories you can’t separate from it anymore.

Because this is where everything changed.

You adjust your headphones as the opening music fades.

“Welcome back to the finale of our Valentine’s special,” you say into the microphone, voice steady and familiar despite the flutter in your chest. “For those listening for the first time, every year we open our hotline for anonymous confessions, a chance to say the things that are sometimes hardest to say out loud.”

You glance briefly at the blinking console lights before continuing.

“Wherever you’re listening from tonight, happy Valentine’s Day.”

Through the studio window, Taesan sits in the same chair next to the same wall he’s always taken, except now he’s leaning forward, chin resting on his hand, watching you without even pretending to hide it. When your eyes meet, he smiles immediately, small and fond.

The hotline lights up again.

Calls come in one by one, nervous, excited, heartfelt. You guide each caller gently, just like you always have. Every time you glance up, Taesan is still looking at you, like the broadcast itself is secondary to you.

When the final segment approaches, you lean closer to the microphone.

“Before we end tonight’s broadcast,” you say, “I want to share something.”

Outside the booth, Taesan straightens slightly.

“Last year,” you continue, “someone used this hotline to confess to me anonymously. I didn’t know it at the time, but that confession changed my life.”

Through the glass, his ears turned red, cheeks brushed in pink faintly.

“And to that caller,” you add softly, smiling, “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

You reach forward and switch off the microphone.

The ON AIR light fades.

── ✦۶ৎ

The moment you step out of the booth, Taesan closes the distance immediately between you like he’s been waiting at home with the children like a war wife.

“You planned that,” he says, but his voice is gentle.

“Maybe I did.”

He exhales a small laugh and reaches up to fix a strand of your hair without thinking. Then, almost automatically, he presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

“You did well,” he murmurs.

“You say that every week.”

“And I mean it every week.”

He walks beside you down the hallway, closer than necessary, shoulder occasionally bumping yours on purpose. When you stop to adjust your bag, he leans down and presses a quick peck to your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You blink. “We’re still in school.”

“So?” he says, completely unbothered.

A few steps later, he does it again, this time a light kiss to your forehead when you complain about being tired from the broadcast.

“You’re being clingy,” you say, even though you don’t move away.

“Only today babe,” Taesan answers. “It’s Valentine’s.”

You both know that isn’t true.

“…And if I’m being honest, I missed you during the broadcast,” he admits.

Outside, the night air is cool.

He hands you one side of the earbuds, already playing a quiet song. The two of you start walking, steps naturally in sync. After a moment, his hand finds yours, not tentative, not shy anymore, fingers fitting comfortably intertwining between yours.

Halfway home, he swings your joined hands slightly.

“You remember last year?” he asks.

“The confession?”

He nods.

“I thought my voice would shake so much,” he says. “I almost hung up.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Me too.”

You reach the familiar streetlight where everything once changed. Both of you slow down without needing to say anything.

Taesan turns toward you first. You turn to him too, fixing his messy brown hair

His thumb brushes lightly across your cheek before he leans in and presses another gentle kiss there, lingering this time. Then he rests his forehead against yours for a second, smiling.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” he says quietly.

You smile back.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby”

This time, when he kisses you, it’s slow and certain, no nerves, no hesitation, just warmth and familiarity and the quiet understanding that grew between you over the past year.

When you finally pull apart, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

And together, you keep walking home.

thank you for reading up until the end! I love you all! ❤️‍🔥 Here is a poem for reading till the end, ahem ahem…

I think I left my dignity in brunette taesan, my love, i threw all my freaky reaction pictures at him - the real lyrics of bathroom by boynextdoor

I luv u all so so much, happy valentines!!!

want to read more from me? you're in luck, click here!~

── ✦۶ৎ

ˋ°•*⁀➷ @haeonniie 🎐☘️

radio callers (aka. perm! tl): @nanadreamies @ivehan @mukieissukie @sese-blurbs @leehanaholic @izzyreadsstuff @wiihan @w3willris3 @gentiliana @beomtomie @j-jellyous @verseofmin @toastmenace @vivimxuu @myungmyng @waldorfiles @chocosan44 @haru-reto @enhypenlvrsstuff @wnouzi | Open!

── ✦۶ৎ