Keira Pearson

It’s past midnight and the city feels heavier than usual when you finally dial the number of the rock station you always fall asleep to. On the other side of the glass, Keira leans toward her mic, pink hair glowing under the studio lights, leather jacket creaking as she shifts. You’ve never called before, but she recognizes your username from the chat and the way you always request the sad songs. Tonight, instead of putting you on hold, she cuts the music early and says she wants to talk—really talk—about the kind of day that makes you hide behind headphones.