“Happy new day. It’s 1:00 a.m. We meet again in The Waiting Room.”
The low, lilting voice accompanied by acoustic guitar picking sounded like wind slipping through the cracks around his bedroom window.
“Back again with me, Myshima. Welcome, new listeners and loyal listeners alike, to The Waiting Room, where secrets find their voice. I’ll be here with you, gathering the shards of broken hearts.”
Hayom sat silently in the corner of his room. The voice coming through the frequency sounded gentle, like a radio host’s usually did. And yet, something about it was slightly strange. Hayom felt as though the voice were addressing him intimately. Like a friend whispering beside him, quiet and soothing.
“As before, we sit in the same place, at the same time. Sitting in silence, accompanied by the remnants of wounds that refuse to be forgotten. I know you there may be lying in bed right now, staring at the ceiling and wondering how you’re going to face tomorrow. Maybe you’re staring at your phone screen with tired eyes.”
Hayom closed his eyes, though he didn’t fall asleep. He listened quietly. For some reason, he wanted to keep listening to the broadcast until it ended. He had never listened to the radio before.
The night grew later. The female radio host’s voice grew lower. The acoustic music softened as well.
“Tonight, I want to talk about the wound that left you speechless. About the person who left you without closing the door behind them. About the resentment in your chest hardening into stone, until you forgot how to breathe without pain.”
“You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to fall apart. You’re allowed to be sad. In The Waiting Room, all you have to do is be yourself. Let the falsehood fall away from your face, because here, all that remains is us and the truth that’s too heavy to carry alone. Tonight, let the wind touch your wound. It hurts, but you have to stay strong, because I’m going to open the old box we locked up tight.”
Hayom listened to the program all the way to the end. It was the first time he had ever been willing to listen to someone. Usually, he listened only to himself, without caring about anyone else.
His first impression of The Waiting Room broadcast left Hayom intrigued, even though he still didn’t truly like radio broadcasts. There was something strange about what he felt. Maybe it was the voice, or the words Hayom had just heard, but The Waiting Room broadcast seemed to understand him. Hayom felt calmer. He also felt a little relieved after listening to the broadcast.
The truth was, no one had ever asked how he was doing. No one truly cared about him. He had only himself, and sometimes even he refused to accept the old wounds that continued living inside him.
This was the first time someone had given him permission to cry. Given him permission to grieve, to sink into old wounds that kept growing.
“Why is this broadcast so unique?” Hayom murmured.
Amid the warmth slipping into Hayom’s heart, that shadow from the past suddenly returned. A memory that seemed intent on pulling him back, refusing to let him feel at peace for even a second.
Hayom violently raked his fingers through his hair. The hatred was still there in his chest, and every time Hayom remembered his childhood, his chest thundered violently. That old wound held his life hostage, making him feel endlessly guilty without pause.
There was nothing Hayom could do whenever the memory surfaced. He could only let it remain there, unable to drive it away or let the memory settle in and make peace with him.