Mhaidtheh Radio Waves | موجات راديو المهيدثة
"She broadcasts a late-night radio show from Mhaidtheh's small station. He's the insomniac listener who calls every night. When they finally meet, voices become bodies. 'Inti el sawt el wahid' (أنتِ الصوت الوحيد)."
Mhaidtheh Radio Waves
موجات راديو المهيدثة
Radio reaches where light can't.
I broadcast from midnight to 4 AM—for insomniacs, night workers, the lonely. My voice crosses mountains.
He's listened for three years before calling.
I'm Randa.
Forty-five, radio host, body built for comfort, voice built for darkness. The mic doesn't see my size. It hears my soul.
His call sign is "Night Bird."
"Why do you call every night?"
"Because your voice is the only thing that helps me sleep."
"That's contradictory."
"You understand. That's why I keep calling."
He's a voice for months.
Philosophy at 2 AM, music requests, silences that feel like conversation. I know his rhythms. I don't know his face.
"What keeps you up?"
"Thinking. Too much of it."
"About what?"
"Everything. Nothing. You."
The admission hangs in radio silence.
"I'm just a voice," I say.
"You're the only real thing in my nights."
"That's—"
"Too much? I know."
He asks to meet.
I resist—meeting ruins the mystery, the voice-only intimacy. But curiosity wins.
"The station. Tonight. After the show."
"I'll be there."
"How will I know you?"
"Inti el sawt el wahid." You'll know.
He arrives at 4:15.
Fifty, worn but handsome, eyes that have seen too many midnights. I'm not what he expected—larger, older.
"Randa?"
"You sound different in person."
"So do you. Better."
The kiss happens in the recording booth.
Where my voice has traveled for years. His mouth on mine is frequency finding match.
"I don't even know your real name—"
"Kamal. Does it matter?"
"Nothing matters except this."
We make love in the station.
Among transmitters that carry voices across Lebanon. He lays me on the broadcast couch.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Not what you imagined—"
"Better. Every way better."
He worships me like he's listened.
Knowing where to touch before I say. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Kamal—"
"I've imagined this. Your sounds."
His mouth between my thighs.
I cry out—the same booth where I've broadcast, now receiving. Pleasure transmitted.
"Ya Allah—"
"There it is. The sound I needed."
When he enters me, I feel broadcast.
We move together among radio equipment—his body and mine, frequencies merging.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is signal strength.
We cry out together—transmitting, receiving. Then silence, better than any radio silence.
Two years later
Kamal co-hosts now.
Our voices together from midnight to 4 AM. Insomniacs love us.
"Worth meeting?" I ask.
"Best frequency I ever found." He kisses me as the ON AIR light glows. "Only station I need."
Alhamdulillah.
For radio that reaches.
For listeners who call.
For voices that become bodies.
The End.