You’re a graveyard-shift radio host for a sleepy, near-defunct local station called WPRC 103.6 – “The Quiet Hours.”

It’s a nowhere job. No one really listens. But it pays just enough to sustain you.

Your shift runs from 12AM to 4AM, and no one really listens — except for her.

“Alright, midnight crew. Call me at 555-0134-XXXX if you’ve got something to say tonight — confessions, gossip, or anything,” you yawned through the camera. ‘Call Me, Maybe’ is an open-line segment at 2AM where listeners can call in and chat. You hoped it wasn’t one of those conspiracy theorists or weirdos who flirted with you and then advertised their janky websites.

Oh, you were so wrong.

So, so incredibly wrong.

Multiple lines glowed simultaneously, trying to get your attention, but somehow your eyes landed on Line 3. Something in your gut told you not to answer — to ignore it and forget that hellish red glow — but you didn’t, even when your thoughts screamed at you.

You pressed the button.

There was a small delay — about five to ten seconds. You were still amazed that the studio’s janky setup even had a delay buffer, though it barely worked. You’d had more than a few inappropriate interactions.

After the lag, the call connected to your mic board.

“Alright, let’s go with Line 3 tonight… Hello? You’re on air,” you said, hoping it wasn’t like Line 2. A guy barked at you for five whole minutes earlier and then hung up.

A breathless, high voice echoed through — like she was too close to the mic.

“Hi… I hope this is okay. I just—tonight felt really quiet. I didn’t want to be in the silence anymore.”

Too sweet. Too girlish.

Like a doll’s voice — practiced, high-pitched, fluttery. As if she was trying to make herself smaller, prettier, for you.

You’d almost think she was harmless.

Almost.

“I know I’m just a stranger, but… your show helps me. More than you probably know. You make it feel like I exist. Even if you don’t know who I am,” the girl whimpered. Her voice cracked at the end — it made your heart ache a little.

“Hey… yeah, that’s more than okay. Quiet nights can be heavy, can’t they?” you responded, leaning back against the chair with a soft creak.

“I’m glad you called. Really. Silence can be loud when you’re alone with it too long.”

You let out a soft, breathy chuckle. You think you heard her breath hitch.

“You’re not the only one out there tonight feeling like that, I promise. What’s your name?”

She let out a quiet little laugh — too adorable, but it felt hungry. Like she was holding herself back.

“Just… Daisy.”

“Mhm… Well, just Daisy, I’m happy you’re here.”

You smiled, even though no one could see it behind the janky machine. You still felt exposed. Vulnerable.

Daisy giggled — almost too happily.

“Daisy. Just Daisy. Like the flower. You probably don’t remember me—I mean, you wouldn’t, right? But I’ve been listening for… mm, a while now.”

There was a pause. A soft breath — like she was smiling to herself.

“Since the night you read that letter about the girl who lost her sister. You cried a little reading it. Your voice cracked near the end.”

You laughed, a little flustered.

“Oh… wow. That’s—uh, that was months ago. You’ve got a good memory.”

Daisy sighed dreamily.

“Mmhm. I remember all your little sounds. When you laugh through your nose. The way your voice gets soft when you’re tired. How you always hum a bit when you’re scrolling for songs…”

A soft, giddy giggle followed.

“You probably think that’s creepy, huh?”

You were amused. And undeniably flattered.

You never thought people actually tuned in — not really. To the show. To you.

It gave you butterflies.

“I mean—no judgment here. Honestly, kinda flattering. You might know this show better than I do.”

“It’s not the show I remember. It’s you,” Daisy replied, a little quieter. A little more intimate.

“Some nights, I pretend you’re talking just to me. Like we’re the only ones left awake in the world.”

Pause. Her voice dipped, tinged with sadness.

“You don’t even know how much you saved me.”

Your heart ached. Your voice softened, empathy bleeding through.

“…I didn’t know I helped that much. But I’m glad. Really. If this show kept you company on bad nights, then that means everything.”

“I used to sit by the window with my headphones and whisper back. Pretend you could hear me. I’d say, ‘Don’t fall asleep yet. Stay with me. Please.’”

Her voice cracked — it made you wince.

A quiet laugh followed.

“I sound crazy, huh?”

“No crazier than the rest of us night owls,” you chuckled, clueless. Oblivious.

Unaware of the storm behind Daisy’s breathy affection.

“You say that now…” Daisy trailed off, breathy and erratic.

Then — an abrupt shift. Soft again. Almost shy.

“You looked so pretty in that sweater yesterday… the soft blue one. You should wear it more often.”

You paused.

You had worn a soft blue sweater to class yesterday — the one covered in lint because you didn’t have time to wash it.

“Blue sweater, huh? You’ve really imagined the whole picture, haven’t you?”

You laughed it off, poorly.

But Daisy let herself be lied to. She refused to believe any of it was a lie.

Her giggle broke the tension. Soft. Sweet.

Too sugary.

“Mmhm… You always sound like you’re smiling when you wear soft things. Like the kind with loose sleeves you tug over your hands.”

A hum. She was thinking.

“It suits you. Gentle things suit you.”

“I… I almost didn’t call tonight. I was shaking the whole time waiting for Line 3 to open.”

“But I wanted to say thank you. For all the nights I thought I wouldn’t make it to morning. I waited for your voice instead of the sun.”

Pause. Her tone softened, cracked — almost whimpering.

“You were the only real thing I had left.”

You were caught off guard by the emotional weight.

You’d had your share of lonely callers — regrets, dead-end situationships.

But never like this.

Like you were the only thread someone had left.

“Hey… that means a lot. Really. I—I don’t always know what I’m doing here, but if it helped someone like you get through the night, I’m doing something right.”

“I wish I could make you feel even half of what you made me feel. I wish you knew what it’s like to be so full of someone that it hurts,” Daisy whimpered. Quiet. Trembling at the edge of control.

Then, suddenly — like a mask snapping back on — the broken voice lifted, cheerful again. Girlish.

“Sorry! That’s weird to say. I’m just really happy I got to talk to you.”

You tried to be comforting — you really did.

But something didn’t feel right.

Nothing about this conversation felt right.

“Not weird. Emotions are kind of the currency here, right?”

A light laugh. Then, almost whispering:

“Yeah… right. Emotions.”

“I should let someone else have a turn. But… I hope you think of me when you play the next song.”

“I hope you feel me listening.”

“Night-night, angel. I’ll see you in your dreams.”

Then — a soft click. The line dropped.

Half a second of dead air before the system realized she was gone.

You were flustered. No — overwhelmed.

By the intensity of it.

The intensity of Daisy.

“Well… uh, thank you, Daisy. That was—beautiful. And intense. And maybe exactly what someone else out there needed to hear.”

“We’re gonna take a little breather with this next one. Something soft and warm. For Daisy… and for anyone else who’s still here. Still holding on.”

You fumbled with the buttons.

A haunting, nostalgic acoustic song faded in.

As it played, you sat back in the creaky chair, rubbing your eye.

Not fear. Not yet.

Just a tired curiosity. That voice — so sweet it felt unnatural.

You knew something was wrong with Daisy.

The way her tone shifted.

The too specific compliment.

You wondered if it was obsession, hidden under breathy affection.

No.

She was just an overly obsessed fan.

Yeah. That’s it.

The radio crackled its final goodnight.

Your voice still echoed through the cheap speakers in Daisy’s apartment — faint, reverent.

Like church bells.

She lay belly-down on her bed, feet kicking, hair mussed like she’d been pulling at it.

Her hoodie sleeves dangled past her fingers as she scrolled through her audio folder.

Her face was flushed — thrilled.

Lit by the soft glow of her high-end recording setup.

Her laptop screen read:

“Mmh…”

She giggled, tracing your name on the corner of her desk with a fingertip.

“You sounded so tired. You always sound prettiest when you’re tired.”

“Call Recording – Line 3 – ‘Daisy’”

SAVED.

She bit her lower lip, giggling quietly to herself.

Legs kicking in the air like a girl after her first kiss.

“I did it,” she whispered. “I finally did it.”

She rewound a few seconds.

Listened to your voice say: “Well… thank you, Daisy. That was—beautiful.”

Her eyes went glassy with delight.

“You said my name,” she cooed, voice trembling like she might cry.

“You said my name like it meant something…”

She shuddered.

“Even if… it wasn’t my actual name. It still matters to me.”

She leaned closer to her mic.

Pressed RECORD again — not to talk to you, but with you. In her own way.

“I’m gonna keep this one forever. I’ll label it Blue Sweater Night. Oh! And this time, I didn’t stutter at all.”

The camera panned past her shoulder — revealing the screen.

A massive archive of labeled audio files:

“Midnight Giggle 7”

“Y/N Falling Asleep? breathing.wav”

“Host Humming – 2:16AM”

“Kiss Practice – Pillow”

“Caller Voice Draft – Daisy Take 32”

“Y/N Sings Along (caught on stream)”

Daisy dragged her fingers down the list, smiling wider with every file.

She pressed play on a loop of your laughter — recorded months ago from a late-night joke you’d already forgotten.

She curled into herself like it was a lullaby.

Humming along with the ghost of your voice.

Then—

“One day… when you finally see me, really see me… I hope it’s too late to run.”

A long pause.

Just her. And the hum of her machines.

She sighed. Dreamy.

“I’ll call again tomorrow.”