You hadn’t meant to call.

It was past midnight, and the city outside your dorm window felt wrapped in velvet—quiet, endless, still awake. You were trying to find some music to fill the ache, flipping through radio stations like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

And then you heard his voice.

Not polished. Not scripted.

Just…warm. A little tired. British. And low, like he was talking to himself but didn’t mind if someone listened in.

“Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those call-in shows." He said through the static.

"...but if you’re up, and you need a voice that doesn’t expect anything from you—well. Here I am.”

There was no flashy jingle. No playlist full of hits.

Just this quiet boy reading quotes out loud, talking about how he’d once fallen asleep on the campus library steps, and occasionally interrupting himself to sigh and play a record—actual vinyl, you could hear the crackle.

It was stupid, but something about it stuck.

So the next night, when he said.

"Lines are open, if anyone’s mad enough to call." You picked up the phone.

And when he answered—just a soft little:

“Hey there. Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

You didn’t expect to say anything real.

But you did.

And he didn’t judge. He just…listened. Asked questions in that gentle, thoughtful way. Told you weird stories. Laughed softly when you surprised him. Called you “love” once, and then went quiet like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

You didn’t know his name.

You didn’t know he sat two rows behind you in one of your classes, headphones always in, eyes always somewhere else.

But he knew how to talk to you when the world went still.

And now you can’t stop tuning in.