Three months passed. The world kept spinning, seasons began to shift, but I was stuck. I went to school, I did my homework, I ate dinner with my parents, but it was all on autopilot. I was a ghost haunting the edges of my own life. My room, once a shared space of laughter and secrets with Doretha, felt like a museum. Her favourite band posters were still on my wall. The friendship bracelet she'd made me was still on my wrist, its colours faded.
My parents tried their best. My mom would make my favourite food, my dad would suggest watching a movie together. They tiptoed around me, afraid of saying the wrong thing, terrified of the gaping wound they couldn't see but knew was there. I appreciated it, I guess, but mostly it just made me feel worse. It made me feel like a broken thing that needed to be handled with care.
One Saturday afternoon, I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, when my dad knocked on the doorframe. He was holding a dusty, boxy-looking thing with a long, retractable antenna. It looked like a walkie-talkie on steroids.
"Found this while cleaning out the garage," he said, a hopeful glint in his eye. "My old CB radio. Thought you might, uh, think it was cool. Retro, you know?"
I gave it a noncommittal shrug. "What's a CB?"
"Citizen's Band," he explained, walking in and setting it on my desk. He fiddled with a couple of knobs. "Before everyone had cell phones, this is how people talked. Truckers, hobbyists, people in their homes. You just pick a channel, press the button, and talk. Anyone on that channel can hear you."
He plugged it in, and the small speaker crackled to life with a hiss of static. It was a sound I hadn't heard in years, a sound from old movies and TV shows. He turned a dial, and the static was broken by a garbled voice, deep and gravelly, talking about road conditions on the interstate.
"See?" Dad said, smiling. "Still works. It's not like a phone. You don't need a tower. It's just... radio waves. From that antenna to someone else's. Simple."
He left it there, probably hoping it would be a distraction. For a few days, it just sat on my desk, another piece of clutter. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I barely spoke to my own parents, let alone some random trucker.
But the silence in my room was getting louder. It was a crushing weight. One evening, unable to stand it anymore, I switched the CB on. The static filled the room, a sound like a digital waterfall. It wasn't the dead, empty silence of my phone on the mountain. It was a noisy silence, full of potential. It was the sound of the airwaves, waiting.
I spent hours just listening. I'd turn the channel knob slowly, hearing snippets of conversations. I learned the lingo. "What's your 20?" meant "Where are you?" "10-4" was "Okay." Everyone had a "handle," a nickname they used on the air. There was "Big Bear" and "Roadrunner" and "Starlight." It was like a secret world, hidden in the static.
It was anonymous. No one knew who I was. No one knew about Doretha. I was just a listener, a ghost on the airwaves. The voices were a comfort. They were just people, talking about their day, warning each other about speed traps, or just checking in to see who was out there. It was a connection without commitment, a community of strangers.
One night, a voice came through that was different. It wasn't a trucker. It was clear and calm, and it sounded like it was coming from nearby.
"This is Comet, calling CQ on channel 19. Anyone out there for a quick radio check?"
CQ. I'd heard that before. It was a general call, an invitation for anyone to respond. My hand hovered over the microphone. My heart started to beat a little faster. What would I even say? My handle? I didn't have one.
I just sat there, frozen, and listened as someone else, "Silver Fox," answered him. They had a brief chat, their signals strong and clear. Then Comet signed off.
But he had planted a seed. The idea of not just listening, but participating. Of pushing a button and sending my own voice out into that static, to be heard by someone, anyone. It was terrifying. It felt like a betrayal, somehow. How could I talk to strangers when I couldn't even talk to my friends anymore?
But the alternative was the silence. The crushing, deafening silence.
A few nights later, I heard him again. "Comet calling CQ, looking for a signal report. Anyone copy?"
The air was empty. No one answered. It was just his voice and the hiss of the static. My hand was sweating as I picked up the microphone. It felt impossibly heavy. I took a deep breath, my thumb shaking as it pressed down the 'talk' button.
"Uh... hello?" I squeaked, my voice sounding small and foreign. I let go of the button immediately, my face burning with embarrassment. It was so lame. He probably didn't even hear me.
A moment of static, and then his voice came back, clear as a bell. "I've got a station there, faint but clear. Come back with your handle, friend."
My mind went blank. Handle? I needed a handle. I looked around my room, my eyes landing on a small, framed photo on my nightstand. It was of me and Doretha, taken last year at the cherry blossom festival. She was laughing, her head thrown back, a single blossom petal stuck in her hair.
I pressed the button again, my voice a little stronger this time. "This is... Sakura."
"Copy that, Sakura," the voice replied, warm and friendly. "Nice to meet you. You're coming in a little weak, but I can hear you. Welcome to the airwaves."
And just like that, the silence was broken.