Long before technology became what it is today, people in 1997 connected through letters and late-night radios—
just like Luna from Paris and Zayn from Manhattan.
In a small pink-tinted room, a girl sat before her beloved radio, fingers gently turning the tuner, searching for a clear frequency amid the static.
"Is it because of the rain?" she murmured to herself.
Outside, rain poured over Paris—a melody soft enough to lull anyone to sleep.
But not Luna.
She couldn't drift off without the familiar hum of her radio. It was her lullaby, one she refused to end the night without.
A faint crackle filled the air, then a clear, calm voice emerged.
"Alright, this is Z, back again with Find Love.
The storm in Manhattan's pretty wild tonight, but nothing's gonna stop me from keeping you company.
If you want to request a song, send your love, or meet someone new—call 77648."
Luna tilted her head, curiosity blooming.
"Manhattan? That's… halfway across the world. How could its frequency reach Paris?"
She brushed the thought aside, but the warmth of his voice lingered.
Moments later, the host spoke again.
"We've got a call coming in. Hello—who's this, and where are you calling from?"
"I'm Brandon, from Manhattan."
"Hey Brandon! What brings you here tonight? Requesting a song or sending a message to your lover?"
"To Rose… my love. If you're listening, please meet me at Manhattan Beach. I'm sorry—for everything."
"That's beautiful, Brandon," Z said softly. "Rose, if you're listening—go to him.
We all make mistakes, and forgiveness is the way we speak our hearts. I hope you two find your way back to each other."
"Thank you, Z."
Click. The call ended.
Luna sat there quietly, captivated.
The sincerity in their voices, the gentleness of the host—something about it pulled her in.
And so, on a whim, she reached for her home phone.
She was alone tonight anyway—maybe talking to someone through the radio would make the night feel less lonely.
The song faded out, replaced by the familiar voice again.
"Oh, another call! Hello—who's this, and where are you from?"
"Hello, I'm Luna… from Paris."
Z chuckled in surprise.
"Paris? Wow. I didn't think Find Love could reach that far."
"Neither did I," Luna replied softly. "I just found this by accident."
"Maybe the storm carried the signal farther than usual," Z said, his voice ending with a light laugh.
"Maybe," she smiled.
"So, Luna, are you calling to dedicate a song to someone in Manhattan?"
"No… I don't know anyone there. But could you play Now and Forever by Richard Marx?"
"Of course. Anything else you'd like to add?"
"Not really. I'm just… home alone tonight, and listening to the radio makes it a little less quiet."
"Ah, so you're alone?" His tone softened. "Alright then—special for our new friend Luna from Paris, I'll keep you company until the show ends."
"Really? Thank you," she said, her smile reflected in her tone.
"Really. Tonight, you get to choose all the songs."
Luna's eyes glimmered with a joy she hadn't felt in a long time.
Somehow, across rain, distance, and static, a voice from Manhattan made her feel… special.
---
The final song faded into the sound of rain, the melody dissolving like a whisper swallowed by the night.
"This is Z signing off.
Wherever you are, whoever you're with—remember, love always finds its way through the noise.
Goodnight, everyone."
Click.
The radio fell silent. Only the steady rhythm of the rain remained.
Luna didn't move for a while. Her fingertips still lingered on the tuner, as if afraid that the moment might vanish completely if she let go.
She exhaled softly.
There was something about his voice—steady yet warm—that made her chest ache in a way she couldn't explain.
She reached for her notebook, the one she usually used for sketching, and began to write without thinking.
*"To Z,
I don't know if you'll ever read this. Maybe this letter will stay hidden between the pages of my journal, or maybe one day it'll find its way across the ocean.
But tonight, when you said you'd keep me company… it didn't feel like a radio show anymore.
It felt like someone was sitting beside me—someone who understood silence."*
Her handwriting trembled a little. The ink smudged when a drop of water fell—she wasn't sure if it was from the rain or her eyes.
She smiled faintly, embarrassed at herself.
"You're writing to a stranger, Luna," she whispered, laughing quietly.
"A voice. That's all he is."
And yet, when she looked at the radio—small, pink, and humming faintly under the soft glow of her desk lamp—
it didn't feel like just a machine anymore.
It felt alive.
She closed her notebook gently.
Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle. Paris was quiet, wrapped in silver mist.
Before turning off the lamp, Luna whispered—so softly even she could barely hear it:
"Goodnight, Z."
And though no one could hear it on the other side of the world,
in Manhattan, the storm began to fade—
as if the night itself had heard her.