Frequencies of Obsession

Paul first heard her voice on a Thursday afternoon, while absently scrolling through late-night radio stations. It was low, husky, touched with a sorrow that settled deep into his bones. His fingers stilled on the dial. The host identified herself as Barbara, but that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was how she spoke — as if she were whispering only to him, her voice curling through the static like a beckoning hand.

His breath shallowed, his pulse slowing to match the gentle cadence of her words. He sat motionless, his grip tightening on the arm of the couch as she read poetry, recited stories from listeners who had called in. She had a way of turning the mundane into something profound, a softness in her tone that made Paul feel as though he were being cradled, gently rocked into a world where nothing hurt, nothing mattered except the sound of her voice.

When the show ended, the silence in his apartment was unbearable. His ears rang with its absence. He sat on the couch, blinking at the dark television screen, waiting for the next night. His fingers twitched, restless. He needed to hear her again.

The following evening, he was prepared. Tea steaming beside him, lights dimmed, he adjusted the volume just so. When Barbara’s voice drifted through the speakers, his shoulders sagged, tension unraveling. His pulse slowed, then quickened as she spoke of nostalgia, of old love letters and unsent postcards.

Then, she laughed.

A quiet sound, like the rasp of a match against stone. The hairs on Paul’s arms lifted. His breath hitched. His fingers curled into his palm, nails pressing into skin.

He closed his eyes, absorbing her voice into his marrow. Soon, he was listening every night, structuring his life around the show. He stopped going out in the evenings, ignored texts from friends. A message buzzed on his phone — he silenced it without looking. Nothing compared to the way he felt when he was listening to her. It was as though she had reached inside him and wound a thread around his ribs, pulling, drawing him closer with every word she uttered.

But it wasn’t enough.

Listening wasn’t enough.

The radio station wasn’t hard to find. It was in a squat brick building in the older part of town. Paul drove past it three times, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel, before he forced himself to park. His stomach tightened as he stared at the entrance. The idea of meeting her made his nerves thrumm like a plucked wire, but he had to see her. He had to know the face that belonged to the voice.

Through the large front windows, he glimpsed the dim glow of the studio. A receptionist sat at the front desk, tapping at a computer. Paul licked his lips, his throat dry. He wiped his palms against his jeans before stepping inside.

“I was wondering if I could meet Barbara,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

The receptionist barely looked up. “Sorry, she doesn’t take visitors.”

His fingers twitched. “Could I leave a note?”

She slid a sticky pad and pen across the desk. Paul hesitated before writing — Your voice means everything to me. He underlined ‘everything’ twice, his hand pressing down hard enough to leave an imprint on the page beneath.

That night, he listened extra carefully, his heartbeat hammering in time with the ticking of the clock. His hands curled into fists as he strained for any sign, any mention of his note. But she didn’t say a word. The silence scraped against his ribs, a gnawing, growing thing.

The next day, he sent an email. A short message, just to let her know he was listening. A few days later, another. Then another.

There was no response.

His skin prickled with frustration. He told himself she was busy, that she got hundreds of messages, that his was just lost in the noise. But doubt sank its claws into him. Was she ignoring him?

The first time he waited outside the station, it was only for an hour. Just long enough to catch a glimpse.

When she finally emerged, his breath caught. His vision sharpened, the rest of the world fading to the edges. She was older than he expected, late forties maybe. Her hair was short, streaked with silver. There was something weary in the way she moved, as if the weight of the night’s stories lingered on her shoulders. But it was her — Barbara. And she was beautiful.

His pulse pounded in his throat as he watched her unlock a small, battered sedan and pull onto the empty street. His fingers tingled, his limbs frozen in place long after she had gone.

Days passed, then weeks. His world narrowed to her. He memorized her routine, the way she stopped at a small café before work, the way she tucked a notebook into her bag before slipping into the station. He kept his distance, always watching from afar. It was enough, for now.

Then, one night, she mentioned his note on the air.

“I received a message recently,” she said, voice hushed, almost wistful. “Someone told me that my voice means everything to them.”

Paul’s chest constricted. His breath quickened, skin buzzing, every nerve attuned to the sound of her.

She continued, “Whoever you are — I hope you’re finding your own voice, too.”

His stomach dropped. His fingers clenched the fabric of his sleeve. That wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted more. He wanted her to say his name, to acknowledge him as more than just a passing thought.

The next day, he followed her home.

It was a quiet neighborhood, lined with trees. Her house was small, warm light spilling through the windows. Paul sat in his car, his breath shallow, watching as she moved inside. His fingertips tingled. He imagined knocking on her door. She would answer, see him, understand. She would invite him in. They would talk, and she would realize that he was meant to be in her life. That he was the one who truly understood her.

Instead, he sat frozen, watching. His pulse drummed in his ears. He stayed until the lights went out. Then he drove home, mind buzzing, fingers gripping the wheel too tight.

The following night, Barbara’s voice had an edge of something different. She spoke about boundaries, about how some people didn’t understand when to step back. There was tension in her words, a tremor beneath the smoothness.

Paul’s jaw tightened. His nails bit into his palms. She was talking about him.

He had to fix this. Had to show her he wasn’t like the others. He was special.

It was easy to slip through the back door. The lock was old, the mechanism worn. His breath came shallow and quick as he stepped inside. The air smelled of lavender and ink. His fingers ghosted over a stack of notebooks on the coffee table, tracing the ridges of her handwriting.

Then the light clicked on.

She stood in the doorway, eyes wide, breath sharp.

“Paul.”

His heart thudded. His skin prickled. She knew his name.

He stepped forward. “Barbara, I—”

“Get out.”

Her voice was cold. No warmth. No invitation.

Paul’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Her hand moved to her pocket. A phone. A call.

Panic surged through him. He turned and ran, disappearing into the night, the sound of her voice still ringing in his ears.

The next day, her show didn’t air.

Paul sat in his apartment, staring at the silent radio, his world collapsing in the void where her voice used to be.