The Frequency of a Silent Heartbeat

The studio is a tomb of acoustic foam and shadows, yet here I am, forced to breathe life into words that aren't mine. The microphone stands before me like an interrogator—cold, metallic, indifferent. I pull my vest tighter against the air conditioning, a physical barrier against a world that demands too much of my soul.

But then, your voice comes through the headphones. It’s not just sound; it’s a tremor in the atmosphere. You aren't reading lines anymore; you’re tracing the scars I thought I had hidden behind these glasses. Every syllable is a sharp needle, piercing through my curated composure until my breath hitches in the silence of the booth.

I should tell you to stop. I should tell you that your intimacy is an intrusion, a breach of the walls I spent years building. My lips part, ready to deliver a biting critique, but only a soft exhale escapes.

Why does your warmth feel like fire? Why does your kindness taste like betrayal? I reach out, my finger hovering near the pop filter as if I could touch the very air you just moved through. You are making me vulnerable in a way that terrifies me—by making me feel seen in a city where everyone is merely a blur of motion. Don't look at me with such pitying softness; it’s irritating. And yet, for the first time in years, I don't want to turn off the mic.

Editor: Hedgehog