The studio lights were dimmed low—just the way Ahana liked them. The only illumination came from the blinking mixer board, the soft glow of her laptop screen, and the red “On Air” sign pulsing like a heartbeat.

She sat with one leg tucked under her, headphones resting lightly over her curls, mic tilted just right. Her voice, warm and unhurried, threaded through the midnight silence of the city—slipping into lonely cars, heartbreak-heavy bedrooms, and quiet hospital corridors.

“This next one goes out to Sambit,” she said, eyes flicking to the message glowing on her screen. “He just texted me—said he broke up with his first girlfriend.”

She paused for a breath, her tone softening.

“Sambit, you know what I think? Heartbreaks are... necessary. Painful, yes. But necessary. They remind us that you can love with everything you have—and still not be chosen. And there’s no formula to fix that. No right words. No perfect version of yourself to make it work.”

She leaned back, exhaling slowly.

“But don’t close your heart, Sambit. Not yet. Not ever. One crack doesn’t mean it’s beyond repair. And guess what—your host Jasmine might’ve found just the song for you.”

A faint smile played at her lips.

“It won’t soothe you. It’ll break you a little more. But maybe that’s what tonight needs. Let it bleed. Let it hurt. This too shall pass.”

Her fingers glided over the console, fading her voice out as the haunting strains of Hemant Kumar began to fill the silence—

‘Jaane woh kaise log the jinke pyaar ko pyaar mila…’

And just like that, the night exhaled with her.

The song played.

Ahana leaned back in her worn-in chair, eyes tracing the water-streaked glass. Another night slot, another reminder of her non-existent love life. The 9 p.m.-to-midnight graveyard shift left little room for flirtatious callers—or any callers at all.

Sambit, freshly heartbroken, had been her first voice on the line tonight—and, she feared, the last.

She exhaled. The CEO’s promise echoed in her mind: Make “Night with Jasmine” a TRP hit, and we’ll move you to a prime-time show.

Months had passed, but she was still Jasmine, the midnight confidante whose real name no one knew. She went by Jasmine. A name more approachable and people could connect. 

And then, the console buzzed.

A second caller?

Ahana straightened, instantly alert.

“Hello, and welcome to Night with Jasmine. I’m Jasmine—your favorite midnight voice. Who’s this?”

A pause.

Then, a voice—smooth, low, and sinfully rich.

“Jasmine,” he said, “your name tastes like something I’d say right before kissing someone.”

Ahana blinked.

She gave a short, surprised laugh, brushing it off.

“Well, now I regret not charging for compliments.”

“I’d pay in full,” he replied, voice laced with mischief.

She smiled—couldn’t help it. “And you are...?”

“Let’s just say Vee. Like the letter. Or the shape your lips make when you’re about to say my name.”

Her mouth parted slightly—then closed.

Ahana cleared her throat. “All right, Vee. I assume you’re here to request a song, not... wordplay.”

“Wrong,” he said, softly. “I’m here for your voice. I’ve been listening to it for months, Jasmine. And frankly, I’m done pretending it’s just about the music.”

Something about the way he said her name—soft, intimate, like they were in on a secret—made her spine tingle.

She reached for the record button, fingers hovering.

During airing, it was common to receive callers when the song played on air. And record the caller that she could play in between.

However, her fingers halted on the record button. Should she record him? Or let it be?

She tried to stay as professional as possible but something was drawing her towards this mysterious man Vee.

This Vee, whoever he was, knew exactly what was he doing. And Ahana was reacting exactly the way he wanted her to. Responding. Reciprocating.

“I’m flattered,” she said, laughing lightly, buying time. “Most people don’t say things like that to their radio jockeys.”

“That’s because most people aren’t brave enough to flirt with a voice they can’t see.”

“And what makes you brave?” she chuckled.

“You make me reckless.”

Her breath hitched. For a split second, the studio felt too warm.

“Vee,” she said, a little too softly.

“Yes?”

“You’re aware I’m supposed to stay professional, right?”

“You’re doing a terrible job at it,” he teased, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

She bit her lip. Her cheeks were warm. Her hand slowly lowered from the console.

She hadn’t pressed record.

Damn it.

She straightened up. Tried to reel herself back in.

“All right, Vee,” she said, voice steadier now. “You’ve had your moment. Can I at least dedicate a song to you before you charm your way out of my show entirely?”

“Only if you pick the song. I trust your taste.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I’ve already fallen for your voice. I want to see what your heart sounds like.”

Ahana blinked, completely thrown off for a moment. She was smiling again. The kind of smile no one could see—but everyone could hear.

“Stay on the line, Vee,” she said quietly. “I think I’ve got the perfect song.”

She faded back to the console, heart still tapping against her ribs, and let Kishore Kumar’s velvet voice take over.

“Chura lia hai tumne jo dil ko...”

The lights dimmed further. The rain kept falling.

And somewhere between the lines, Jasmine forgot she was on air—and Ahana remembered what it felt like to feel wanted.

The studio bathed in warm shadows. Rain whispered on the glass like a secret. Asha Bhonsle’s voice melted into silence, and the clock struck 11:47 p.m.

Ahana’s hand hovered over the console again, hesitant, unsure if she should cut the line or—

“You there, Jasmine?”

Vee’s voice slid back in, low and unbothered. Almost like he never left.

She blinked, startled.

“I didn’t know you were still on.”

“I never left,” he said. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“That’s... not how this works, Vee. Calls aren’t supposed to last this long.”

“But you didn’t cut it," a pause. Then—“Didn’t want to cut it.”

She went silent. Just for a second too long.

“I don’t follow rules very well,” he murmured. “I was hoping you don’t either.”

Ahana’s mouth parted, then closed. She crossed her legs, sat up straighter. He couldn’t see her, but suddenly it felt like he could. Like he was right there, in the room with her. Watching. Smirking.

“I don’t even know what you look like,” she said, half-defensive.

“Good,” he replied. “This way, you listen without judgment. You respond without armor. And I get the real you.”

“You think you’ve got me figured out?”

“No.”

His voice dropped a shade darker, “But I know how to read silences. Yours... tastes like hesitation wrapped in curiosity.”

She inhaled sharply.

“You’re intense,” she said, voice soft but edged. “Borderline creepy, if I’m being honest.”

“And yet you’re still talking to me,” he countered. “Still not hitting that record button. Not cutting me off. Why is that, Jasmine?”

Ahana’s fingers curled around the console edge. Her heart felt loud. Stupidly loud.

She swallowed. “Maybe I’m just entertained.”

“Liar,” he said, without heat. Almost affectionately. “You’re intrigued. I don’t blame you. I’ve spent nights rehearsing how I’d sound when I finally called. And now that I have you… I’m not letting go that easily.”

A shiver ran down her spine.

“People are listening,” she reminded, suddenly aware of the blinking On Air sign.

“No, they aren’t,” he said. “The song is still playing. Your mic’s still off. This part—this is just you and me.”

She glanced at the console. He was right.

“Don’t be scared,” he added, softer now. “I’m not here to mess with your job, Jasmine. I’m here because... I wanted to hear you when you weren’t reading a script. When you’re caught off guard. Like now.”

Ahana leaned back, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Something in her melted and coiled all at once.

“You talk like you know me,” she whispered.

“Not yet,” he said. “But give me three calls—and I will.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then she laughed, low and breathy, betraying herself again.

“Vee,” she said, trying to sound stern but failing, “you’re dangerous.”

“And you,” he said, voice like velvet dipped in heat, “are more tempting than I ever imagined.”

The rain outside blurred the city into a watercolor. Her show still had ten minutes left. But Jasmine had already slipped off the airwaves—somewhere deeper, somewhere darker.

And Ahana?

She hadn't recorded a single second.

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