Airwaves of Support

The hum of the radio console buzzed softly in the dimly lit studio, its analog meters glowing amber and red. Vinyl records lined the back wall in tall shelves, and the soft hiss of a tuning dial settled into static silence. Sarah stood near the microphone, fingers nervously clutching the frayed strap of her canvas bag. The on-air sign above the booth blinked to life.

Mia stood just beyond the soundproof glass, her breath shallow, arms crossed over her chest. She couldn't hear Sarah's voice yet, but she felt it thrumming in her chest like a second heartbeat. Anxiety coiled in her spine, tangling with a thread of quiet pride.

"And joining us this evening," the host's smooth voice crackled through the headset, "is a young voice from our very own community. Sarah, welcome to the program."

There was a beat of silence. Then, Sarah leaned in.

"Thank you for having me," she said. Her voice trembled only slightly.

Mia exhaled, shoulders dropping a notch. The tiny crackle of nervousness in Sarah's tone hit her like a flare, sharp and bright. But it passed quickly. Sarah was already continuing—speaking about the after-school program she'd joined, the clean-up efforts in her block, and the importance of youth involvement in local decisions.

The broadcast meters jumped with each syllable. The analog needles danced in response to Sarah's growing confidence, and Mia watched the host lean forward, nodding, engaged. Pride swelled in her chest, almost painful.

The studio lights, a soft glow over vintage knobs and levers, cast gentle halos around the microphones. Mia barely blinked, afraid the moment would vanish if she did.

Sarah's hands relaxed, her voice rising. "We don't need to be older or richer to care about our community. We just need to speak up. That's how change starts."

Mia's chest tightened. That had been her phrase once, whispered during a difficult night outside the school gate. She hadn't known Sarah remembered.

Beyond the glass, the host smiled. "Well said."

The segment ran for fifteen minutes. Every second felt like both a held breath and a drumbeat. Mia couldn't tell if her feet touched the floor.

When the host announced a brief musical interlude, Sarah removed her headphones, beaming. She turned and caught Mia's gaze through the glass. Mia gave the faintest nod, the one they'd practiced. Sarah's eyes softened in understanding.

The host leaned into his mic again. "Listeners, that was Sarah K., a voice we'll surely be hearing more from. Stay tuned, because we'll be replaying this segment tomorrow during the morning show. It's one you don't want to miss."

Mia's breath caught. The word "replay" reverberated in her ears. That meant reach—amplification. More people would hear Sarah. More attention. More risk.

Her hand curled slightly against the glass. That risk belonged to Mia now.

But as she turned away, shadows folding around her figure, all she could think of was Sarah's voice, steady and sure, filling a space once occupied by silence.

Outside the booth, the hallway buzzed faintly with the low static of background feeds and distant stations. Mia leaned against the cool tile, her heart still racing. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her notebook. On a blank page, she jotted three words: Monitor responses tomorrow.

Sarah exited the booth moments later, flushed with excitement. She moved with a lightness that hadn't been there days ago. Mia stood straight and met her with a calm smile.

"You nailed it," she said softly.

Sarah shook her head, a half-disbelieving laugh bubbling out. "My hands were shaking the whole time. Did I sound like it?"

"Not at all," Mia replied. "You sounded real. That's more important."

They stepped into the waiting area where the station's manager gave Sarah a quick thumbs-up. A technician handed her a CD copy of the recording. Sarah turned it over in her hands like it was something fragile and precious.

"Do you think people will actually listen?" she asked.

"They already are," Mia said. "The message is out now."

They walked in silence for a few steps before Sarah glanced over. "What happens if… someone doesn't like what I said?"

Mia hesitated. The corridor's ambient hum seemed to pause with her.

"Then I'll make sure they don't get close enough to say it twice," she answered, voice steady.

Sarah didn't respond, but she didn't ask again either.

They exited through the side door, into the gold-tinged dusk. The warmth of the station fell behind them like a closing curtain, and the city reasserted itself—alive, restless, filled with echoes. Somewhere, a car alarm chirped. A bus exhaled its brakes at the end of the block.

Sarah cradled the CD against her chest. "Do you think I could… do this again? Like, another segment?"

Mia looked over. "I think the real question is whether they'll be ready for you again."

Sarah laughed—a clear, vibrant sound that rang louder than the noise of the street.

Behind them, inside the studio, the on-air light still glowed.

They walked on in a rhythm of shared purpose, their footsteps quiet but firm against the sidewalk's growing noise. Sarah tucked the CD gently into her bag, then looked up at the darkening sky. Her expression held something new—resolve, yes, but also wonder.

"I didn't think my voice could do that," she murmured.

Mia turned to her, eyes steady. "Your voice didn't just speak. It resonated."

A long pause passed between them, but not an uncomfortable one. They kept walking, surrounded by the soft rustling of trees above and the distant echo of a siren somewhere in the heart of the city.

A sudden gust of wind fluttered a discarded flyer along the sidewalk—one of the station's weekly programs, now streaked with dust and tread marks. Sarah reached down and picked it up absently.

She stared at the names on the paper, then flipped it over. Her name wasn't printed yet, but her words were already moving through speakers across the city.

"Do you think it'll help?" she asked.

Mia considered. "It might not fix everything. But it's a beginning. And sometimes, that's more powerful than resolution."

Sarah folded the flyer carefully and slid it into her notebook.

"Then I'll keep talking," she said.

And the sound of that promise, though quieter than the segment itself, carried just as far.