The low hum of the city's nightlife pulsed in the background as Lemuel Reyes, better known as DJ Blue, leaned into the microphone and spoke, his voice smooth as velvet, washing over the airwaves like a soothing balm.
"Love isn't always about fireworks, dear listeners. Sometimes, it's the quiet moments—the ones where you're just sitting in comfortable silence, knowing you're with the right person. That's the real magic. Now, for all the lovers out there, here's a song to bring you closer tonight."
With a flick of his wrist, he hit the play button, sending a slow, soulful tune cascading through the late-night silence. His eyes flicked to the digital clock on the wall. It was nearing 11:00 PM, prime time for Blue Hour, his midnight radio show that had grown a dedicated following over the years. Lem leaned back in his chair, allowing the music to flow through the room, his mind wandering.
His fans loved DJ Blue. They adored his smooth, mysterious voice, the way he spoke as if he had all the answers about love. Little did they know, Lem Reyes, the man behind the microphone, was nothing like the confident, charismatic persona he projected on-air. Behind his smooth tone was a man who had his fair share of heartbreak and whose personal life felt like anything but the flawless advice he dished out every night.
Lem rubbed his eyes and ran a hand through his messy black hair. His shift had only just begun, but the fatigue of living two lives was starting to weigh on him. DJ Blue was polished, insightful, and wise—a voice listeners turned to when their hearts were broken or when they needed guidance. Lemuel, on the other hand, was introverted and uncertain, constantly dodging his overbearing mother's expectations and running from the wreckage of his past relationship with Ivy Martinez, the social media influencer who had left him for someone more high-profile.
Just as he started to drift into his own thoughts, the soft chime of an incoming call lit up his console. Lem straightened, slipping back into the easy, charming voice of DJ Blue. "Looks like we've got a late-night caller," he said into the microphone as he connected the call. "You're on with DJ Blue. What's on your mind tonight?"
The familiar static crackled for a second before a woman's voice—tentative but clear—came through. "Hi, DJ Blue. I—I don't know why I'm calling. I guess I just needed someone to talk to."
"You're in the right place," Lem replied, his voice warm and reassuring. "What's your name?"
"Angie," the woman answered, her voice softening slightly. "I've been listening to your show for a few months now, and, well, tonight I just couldn't take it anymore. I broke up with my boyfriend a week ago, and it still hurts like hell."
Lem nodded as if she could see him. "I'm sorry you're going through this, Angie. Breakups are never easy, especially when it feels like the love you had isn't something you can just let go of. But tell me—was it really love, or was it more about comfort?"
Angie hesitated, her breath audible through the speaker. "I don't know. I guess I thought it was love. We'd been together for almost four years, and I always thought we'd figure it out. But in the end, it was like we were just going through the motions. I was comfortable. Safe, maybe. But not happy."
"Comfort can be a dangerous thing," Lem said, his voice dipping into a lower register. "It makes us think we're settled when really, we're just stuck. Sometimes, the hardest part isn't letting go of someone else—it's letting go of the idea that what we had was enough."
A brief silence followed. Lem could hear Angie's quiet breathing, and then a small, shaky exhale. "You're right. I just—thank you. It helps to hear someone say it out loud."
"That's what I'm here for," Lem replied. "Take your time to heal, Angie. Don't rush yourself. And remember, you're worth more than just comfort."
He disconnected the call with a soft click, staring at the console for a moment as the soft croon of the next song filled the room. These conversations—these late-night confessions from strangers—were the lifeblood of his show. But with each call, Lem couldn't help but feel the irony of it all. Here he was, offering guidance on love when he hadn't truly found it for himself. His advice, while genuine, always felt like it came from a safe distance, detached from the pain and confusion he still harbored deep inside.
