#ueeeeeeee

As the last segment of “Letters From the Night” comes to a close—where you read real (or maybe fake) listener letters about loneliness, dreams, love, death, and 2 A.M. confessions—you stretch in the office chair that probably hasn’t been cleaned or replaced since the station was built.

Your back cracks like twigs. Sweet relief.

The soft hum of the mic is the only thing keeping you awake now. The station lights are dim. It’s past midnight, and you swear there’s a faint, orange light rising in the sky outside the window. Morning. Almost.

“Alright, midnight crew,” you say, voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m running on, like, two hours of sleep and one granola bar, but we’re making it… kinda.”

Your fingers tap absently on the desk.

“If anyone out there’s cramming for finals—solidarity. I see you. I’m you. I am dying.”

You let out a tired laugh. Honest.

“Anyway. Next up is something soft. Something sad. Something for all of us sleep-deprived freaks just trying to keep it together.”

You scroll for a song, settle on something moody—probably one of Riley’s weird late-shift picks. The track begins in a low riff just as you start packing up.

Sylvia walks in, all cardigan and cheery fake morning voice, brown hair pulled into that same tight bun. Her ‘lucky jeans’ have another rip.

But what catches your eye is the box in her hands.

“Hey, uh… Y/N?” she says, offering a small, awkward laugh. “This was outside by the back entrance. It’s addressed to you.”

You take the box before looking down at it. You look up at where Sylvia was standing but she was already gone, probably already doing the morning live with that false, go lucky voice of hers.

The box is heavier than it looks. You shake it—soft thudding inside.

You don’t open it. Not yet. You grab your bag. You don’t even know why you even bought it today, It’s only filled receipts, pencil shavings, a nail clipper, and a deep sense of regret.

Your stomach grumbled as you made your way home.

You make it to your dorm. Barely.

The elevator’s broken again, so it’s stairs. Every step is a negotiation between your knees and your will to live.

The elevator was broken more than you could remember, it makes you wonder what were they even doing to the student’s tuition fees.

Your gaze fell towards the box on your hands.

Who even sent that box? You don’t have fans. Your listeners are probably retired dads, insomniac teens, and the occasional ghost.

You reach your floor with a relieved pant. Fumble for your keys. Slide it in through the knob. You expect that soft routinely ‘click’

But there was no click. Just silence.

You open the door. It squeaks. You wince at the noise.

Inside, everything’s exactly the same—shoes by the door, that old photo of the beach trip still tucked into the corner of the mirror.

But something feels… off.

In a way that your gut just tells you to go, run, hide somewhere else instead of your dorm.

But you don’t.

You chalked it up to the effect of that expired coffee earlier. You took off your shoes and lined it up with the rest. Walking into the living room, you sat down on the couch before relaxing all together, just feeling and releasing all that work and college stress into the soft fabric.

Your mind wanders again.

The box.

You scrambled to sit up and grasp the box, making a slight dent and the sound of the items thudding. Hope the sender didn’t send something fragile. The tape peeled off with a soft krrrch, the box parting like it was holding its breath.

Inside was… something you definitely not expected.

Pressed flowers, a bouquet of carefully pressed flowers into some pink envelope that vaguely smells of strawberries and vanilla. Each labeled in your name in the tags like specimens. Some flowers are old — faded, brittle. As if the sender had been keeping them for awhile.

Next to the pressed flowers were multiple photos, polaroids of you from a distance, some of you working at the station, walking home at night — sleeping, clearly taken without your knowledge.

The right side was a little handmade plush of you, same shade that suspiciously resembles real human hair, a small cardigan, cute blue pants, the expression was adorable, almost like one of a lalaloopsy doll. The eyes stare lovingly at you, the bead of the eyes shines too much, the head is heavy…

Almost like—

Your gaze fell down.

The damning item of all was the envelope in the middle. You put down the forgotten plush gently. You open the envelope with barely contained shaking hands — it’s a love letter, or atleast what you can make of it besides the various glittery ink and scratchy red lines. It spirals between love and obsession, the glittery line said they wanted to kiss you, take you out on dates and dote on you forever.

the other line said in red scratchy red was they wanted you to depend on them, need them as much as they need you and eventually become one.

You reread the letter over and over, hoping it’ll make sense the second or third time.

It doesn’t.

God it really doesn’t.

The glitter ink swirls around your name like hearts. The red lines slash between the margins like something caged trying to crawl out. The handwriting changes halfway through — like two people were fighting inside the same letter.

You skim over the part about your voice being their lullaby. You skip the paragraph where they swear they’ve seen you in their dreams. You stop cold at the line that says:

“I’m the only one who really listens.”

Your skin prickles.

You don’t remember giving anyone your address. Or your full name. Or your schedule.

You don’t remember anyone watching you.

You think.

You look at the plush again. Its bead eyes glint in the low light.

There’s no note saying who sent it. No signature. Just that voice, still echoing in your head:

“I want you to need me the way I need you.”

You place everything back in the box. Seal it shut with shaking hands. Shove it under your bed like that’ll help ease everything wrong.

You crawl under your blanket fully clothed. You don’t even turn off the light.

Sleep doesn’t come.

But the thought does:

Someone out there knows you. Wants you. And they’re getting closer.

And you don’t know what to do if they managed to capture you.

It’s a few days later. You didn’t open the box again. You’ve been avoiding it actually. You even started locking your dorm door twice.

Now? Your back on air. Still tired. Still trying to shake off that feeling of being watched.

The radio booth is quiet, save for the hum of the monitor and the low thrum of the next track fading out. You’re halfway through tonight’s shift, bleary-eyed and borderline delusional from a mix of finals fatigue, caffeine, and that box still sitting at the edge of your dorm.

You shouldn’t have brought it. You shouldn’t keep thinking about it. But it’s there in the corner. The scent of vanilla and old flowers still clinging to your sweater sleeve.

You lean into the mic.

“Alright, midnight crew,” you sigh, dragging the mic closer.

“Welcome back to Letters From the Night. We’ve got some heavy ones tonight—grief, heartbreak, failed exams… so if you’re listening out there, this is your reminder to breathe. Just breathe.”

You pause, then smile faintly.

“And hey—whoever dropped off that flower bouquet the other day… thanks? I guess? It was… a little weird, not gonna lie, but also kinda sweet. Just… maybe sign your name next time, yeah?”

You hit play on the next song. The light above the booth shifts from LIVE to MUSIC.

You rub your eyes. You swear you’re imagining things now.

You swallow. Trying not to think about the box still shoved under your bed. Trying not to think about the doll’s eyes. The photo—

You start reading from a random letter. A funny one. A breakup story that feels fake but gets a laugh out of you. Then another. Then—

The phone blinks.

Line 3.

Of course it’s Line 3.

You hesitate. Then tap the receiver.

“You’re on air with Letters From the Night. Who’s this?”

And then—

That voice.

“Hiii!”

Daisy’s voice comes through like a sugar-rush whisper, sweet and buzzing. “It’s me. You knew it’d be me.”

You smile automatically. Habit. You’ve talked to her before. A lot. Her giggle follows.

“I missed you yesterday,” she says, like it physically hurt her. “You didn’t stay on as long. You sounded tired. Were you okay, baby?”

Your throat tightens slightly.

“Uh. Finals,” you say. “Y’know how it is.”

“Mmhm… but you didn’t sleep after, did you? I had this weird feeling in my tummy all night. Like you were upset. I was right, huh?”

Her voice dips, soft and girlish. “You can tell me. I love when you tell me things.”

You shift in your seat, eyes flicking to the studio window — empty.

“I’m fine,” you say, a little sharper than you mean to.

There’s a pause.

Then, a quiet pout in her tone:

“You didn’t say anything about the flowers.”

Dead silence.

“Or the doll,” Daisy adds. Giggling now. “It looks just like you, doesn’t it? I even got the pants right after a few tries. And the hair? God, baby, your hair is so soft. You left some behind once. I saved it.”

Your heart stumbles.

“Daisy,” you say, voice low.

“Mmm?” she hums, sing-song and sickeningly sweet.

“You got it, didn’t you? I worked soooo hard on it. Pressed every petal myself. Wrote the letter six times before I got it perfect. Glitter pens are hard when your hands won’t stop shaking, y’know?”

Another giggle. Lighter now. Like she’s proud. Like this is normal.

“…I love listening to you when you don’t know I’m there.”

She sighs dreamily.

“You sound so real when you think no one’s listening. So soft. So lonely. I wanna kiss the sadness out of your voice.”

You sit frozen in the booth, unsure if the mic is still hot, if the world is still turning.

Then Daisy says:

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about the doll. Or the picture. That’s just for us.”

She giggles again. Higher this time. Excited.