Ten minutes before lunch break, the suggestion box placed under the hallway bulletin board felt heavier than expected.
Maybe because it was a new semester, the colorful memo pads were pretty full, from short notes teasing friends to doodles that imitated confessions to a one-sided crush. I carried the whole box and opened the broadcasting room door.
"Wonbin, we got a ton of submissions."
Wonbin, who had been sitting in front of the console, flipping the machine switches one by one, only turned his head to look at the box.
He still had one headphone over only one ear.
"I’m betting more than half of them are jokes. Senior, just pick three or four that you can put on the air yourself."
"Okay. Filtering is the announcer’s job."
I dumped the memo slips onto the table in the booth and started unfolding and reading them one by one. Most were ordinary school-day outcries like ‘Please give the second-year Class 3 more cafeteria food’ and ‘Let’s definitely win the soccer final at the sports day.’
But from the very bottom of the pile, one note stood out in particular.
It had been neatly torn from a lined notebook, with the pen writing pressed in firmly and tidily.
[Song request: The Black Skirts - 섬 (Queen of Diamonds)] Sometimes the voice that comes through from beyond the broadcasting room sounds better than music. Thanks for all your hard work every lunchtime.
A short story written anonymously. There was no name or grade level written, but for some reason, a quiet warmth lingered at the end of the sentence.
"Wonbin, do you know this song? It’s The Black Skirts’ ‘Island.’"
When I turned on the intercom and asked, the fingers of Wonbin, who had been staring at the control room computer monitor, froze for an instant.
Wonbin slowly turned to look at me through the glass.
"...I do."
"Oh, you do? Then let’s play this song for today’s submission.
The message was written so gently too. They even complimented your voice for being nice."
When I waved the note around and laughed proudly, Wonbin let out an awkward cough, then turned his head away and clicked only the mouse on the monitor. The mouse clicks sounded especially fast and loud, more than usual.
"You really like hearing praise that much."
"Of course. For an announcer, hearing that their voice is good is the biggest compliment."
"...It’s not even that impressive of a thing to say."
Wonbin pursed his lips slightly and quickly typed the song title into the music library search bar.
The clatter of the keyboard sounded somehow oddly prickly.
12:20. Three, two, one. With Wonbin’s gesture, the red ON AIR light came on.
"Hello, students of Hyeseong High. We’re bringing you Wednesday’s lunchtime radio.
Today, the suggestion box you all so carefully sent in has been opened wide."
After reading out the cafeteria menu talk and the small rumors about class-versus-class matches in a lively voice, I naturally picked up the last note in my hand.
"This is the final submission. It was sent by an anonymous student.
Along with the warm encouragement, ‘Sometimes the voice that comes through from beyond the broadcasting room sounds better than music,’ they left a song request as well. To whoever sent this, thank you sincerely.
Thanks to you, I think I’ll be able to get through the rest of today with energy too."
As I spoke into the microphone with sincerity, my gaze naturally drifted beyond the glass.
Wonbin was holding the slider, head lowered in silence.
He was always the calm type, but for some reason, from his ears all the way to the back of his neck, he was blushing bright red, and it showed in the glass.
A soft bass and guitar melody began to rise inside the broadcasting room.
‘Since I was very little...’
That band song with its signature languid, warm feeling spilled through the speakers into the hallway, and into the booth between the two of us.
The ON AIR light went out, and I took off my headset, opened the booth door, and went out into the control room.
"Wonbin, this song is really good. The lyrics are so soft and lovely too."
Wonbin was still staring holes into the monitor.
"...Yeah. The lyrics are pretty."
"But why is your face so red? Did you turn on the heater?"
"No way. It’s just... because of the machine heat."
Wonbin sprang up from his seat and hurriedly closed the notebook on the desk.
But because he moved so hastily, one scrap of practice paper that had been tucked between the pages fluttered down to the floor.
"Oh, it’s falling."
I bent down first and picked up the paper. And the moment I absentmindedly looked at it, my eyes went wide.
A neatly torn notebook margin. On it, in the exact same handwriting as the note I had just read on air, were the traces of having been written and erased over and over again.
Sometimes the voice that comes through from beyond the broadcasting room...
"Hey, Park Wonbin."
"...."
I looked back and forth between the paper in my hand and Wonbin’s face. Wonbin, completely frozen, squeezed his eyes shut, then slowly opened them and shot me a resentful glare. His flushed face was now bright red, like an apple.
"Senior, that... is a violation of someone else’s privacy."
"That was you? You sent this submission?"
"It was just something I put in out of politeness, in case the suggestion box was empty. Don’t misunderstand."
Wonbin snatched the paper back from my hand in a flash, shoved it into his pocket, and then stomped out toward the broadcasting room door with his school bag.
But the back of him, with his hand on the doorknob, was red all the way to the tips of his ears from embarrassment and panic.
"Wonbin!"
When I called out, unable to hold back my laughter, Wonbin, who had half-opened the door, muttered in a tiny voice without even turning around,
"...Since the song is good, tomorrow too, don’t play someone else’s submission—play the one I picked. Just so you know."
Bang.
The door closed, and inside the now-silent broadcasting room, the Black Skirts’ warm song still flowed from the speakers, and my heart was pounding even harder than it had just moments before.
