Radio Love | Radio Amor
"A late-night radio DJ and her most loyal caller discover that connection transcends airwaves"
Radio Love
Radio Amor
She called every night at 2 AM. Same time, same voice, same request.
"Play 'Bésame Mucho' for me, Valentina."
"For you or for someone else?"
"Just for me. I'm alone tonight."
"You're alone every night."
"Then you understand."
I'd been doing late-night radio for five years. Lonely hearts called in; I played their songs; we pretended connection through the static.
But this caller was different. Her voice made me feel things I wasn't supposed to feel through speakers.
"What's your name?" I asked after her hundredth call.
"Does it matter?"
"I'd like to know who I'm playing for."
"Call me your faithful listener. That's enough."
She told me things between requests. About her job she hated, her apartment she loved, her life that felt empty despite being full.
"Why do you call me?" I asked.
"Because your voice makes 2 AM bearable."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"You handle it well."
"Will you ever call during the day?" I asked one night.
"The day has too many people. Night is when we're honest."
"Are you honest with me?"
"More than with anyone."
She sent a letter to the station. No name, no return address. Just a poem about a voice in the dark that kept her company.
"Did you get my letter?" she asked that night.
"I did."
"Will you read it on air?"
"It's too personal."
"Then read it to me. Just me."
I read it. My voice cracked halfway through.
"Meet me," I said. Breaking every rule. "Please. I need to know you're real."
"What if reality disappoints?"
"What if it doesn't?"
Long silence. Then: "The coffee shop across from the station. Tomorrow. 2 PM."
"How will I know you?"
"I'll be the one who knows your voice better than anyone."
She was beautiful. Not the way I'd imagined—different, better, more real than any late-night fantasy.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"Me too."
"I don't know how to be with you outside the dark."
"We'll learn together."
We learned. Awkward at first, then natural. Her voice was different in person—warmer, closer, unmistakably the woman I'd been falling for through static.
"Do I still call at 2 AM?" she asked.
"You can call whenever you want now. Or just come over."
"But 2 AM was ours."
"Every hour is ours now."
She still calls sometimes. Even though she lives with me. Even though she's in the next room.
"Play 'Bésame Mucho' for me, Valentina."
"Come here and I'll do better than play it."
"That's very forward for a radio DJ."
"You're not just a listener anymore."
Radio amor—where voices connect, and love is found in frequencies.