Trashed Promises

Two in the morning. Again.

I rubbed my throbbing temples, staring at the dense maze of clauses from the Blackstone merger case on my computer screen. The office was silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and the clicking of my keyboard. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the 42nd floor, Manhattan sprawled below like a massive circuit board, neon lights blinking endlessly.

This damn insomnia was acting up again.

I'd been working for sixteen straight hours, but my brain was still wired like I'd mainlined espresso. The doctor said it was a side effect of high-pressure work and suggested I either change jobs or take sleeping pills. Please. Change jobs? I'm the queen of mergers and acquisitions at Cromwell & Associates, one of New York's top M&A attorneys. As for sleeping pills, they'd leave me foggy the next day, and I needed to maintain one hundred percent precision.

The headache was getting worse. I reached for the radio on my desk—a long-forgotten "decoration" that my secretary Sarah had insisted on placing there. Maybe some background music would help me relax.

I randomly tuned to a station, wincing at the static. Just as I was about to turn it off, a low male voice suddenly emerged.

"Good evening, night owls of New York. This is Phoenix, here to keep you company through this sleepless night."

That voice... how to describe it? Like whiskey—warm with a gentle burn. Not the artificially deepened fake magnetism you hear everywhere, but something natural, flowing effortlessly.

"It's 2:15 AM. If you're still awake, that means you're like me—part of this city that never sleeps. Midnight New York never truly rests, just like those souls burning for their dreams."

I stopped working.

What was this Phoenix talking about? Burning for dreams? I was just burning for bills and mortgage payments. But somehow, his voice had this strange calming quality that loosened my tense nerves just a bit.

"Tonight I'd like to share a song with you—Billie Holiday's 'Strange Fruit.' This song reminds us that even in the darkest moments, music can still touch our souls."

When the music started, I realized my shoulders had relaxed. Billie Holiday's gravelly voice filled the entire office, driving away that suffocating silence. I leaned back in my chair, feeling warmth in this office for the first time.

After the song ended, Phoenix's voice returned: "If you're working alone right now, remember—you're not alone. There are many people in this city just like you, working through the night for their goals. You're all brave night wanderers."

Brave night wanderers?

I almost laughed. I was just a workaholic enslaved by my job—where was the bravery in that? But for some reason, this description made me feel... not so terrible.

Over the next three weeks, my routine underwent a subtle change.

Every night at 2 AM, I'd tune to that station. Phoenix's show became the soundtrack to my late-night work. He'd play jazz, read listener mail, and sometimes share observations about New York's nightlife.

"A listener asked me why I chose to be a late-night DJ," he said one Wednesday night. "Because nighttime is when this city is most authentic. The daytime masks come off, leaving only our truest selves."

Strangely, my insomnia symptoms began improving. Not that I slept more, but I was less anxious while working. Phoenix's voice was like some kind of sedative, allowing me to focus calmly on my cases.

The Friday of the second week, I did something I'd never imagined—I emailed the station.

I stared at the blank email interface for ten full minutes, unsure what to write. Finally, I typed these words:

"Dear Phoenix,

I'm someone who often works late into the night, and your show has become my only companion. This city can be so cold it's suffocating; everyone moves like machines, but your voice reminds me that we're still flesh-and-blood humans. Thank you for letting me feel human warmth again.

Signed: T"

I hesitated for three minutes, then clicked send.

The next night, Phoenix mentioned my email on his show.

"I received a letter from a Ms. T, who says work makes her feel like a machine, but my show helps her feel human warmth again. Ms. T, whoever you are, wherever you are, I want to tell you that everyone needs to be reminded of their humanity. Your choice to write this email in the depths of night shows that deep down, you still crave connection, still want to be understood. That's beautiful."

My face grew warm. He was right—I did crave understanding. In courtrooms and conference rooms, I had to be a ruthless negotiating machine. But in this late-night office, listening to this stranger's voice, I could temporarily drop that armor.

Over the following days, we established some strange connection through email. I'd tell him about work pressures, and he'd respond on his show, never naming names, but I knew he was talking to me.

"Someone asked me how to handle pressure," he said one Tuesday. "I think the key is remembering that you are not your job. Your worth doesn't depend on how much money you make or how many projects you complete. You're a complete person with your own dreams, fears, and hopes. Work is just one part of life."

Yes, I'd almost forgotten what I could be besides a lawyer.

Everything changed on the Friday of the third week.

I tuned to that station at 2 AM as usual, organizing materials for next week's trial while waiting for Phoenix's voice. After the music ended, he spoke, but this time his tone was different—more... focused.

"Tonight I want to speak to one particular listener," his voice carried an emotion I couldn't decode. "Ms. T, I know you're listening every night. I know you're always working late in some Manhattan high-rise, looking down at this city through floor-to-ceiling windows."

My coffee cup slipped from my hands, spilling across the desk.

How did he know I was in a high-rise? How did he know about the floor-to-ceiling windows? I'd never mentioned these details in my emails.

My heart began racing. This was just coincidence, right? New York had thousands of people working late in high-rise buildings with floor-to-ceiling windows. He was just guessing.

But Phoenix continued: "Ms. T, I think you should know how many people in this city are curious about your existence. Your emails aren't just words—they reveal more information than you might think."

"Same time tomorrow night, I have something to say to you. I hope you'll still be listening," Phoenix's voice sounded both gentle and carrying some undeniable determination. "Ms. T, or perhaps I should say... well, let's talk tomorrow night."

The show switched to music, but I couldn't hear it anymore.

I stared at the radio, my brain spinning wildly.

What did he mean? What information had my emails revealed? I'd been so careful, never mentioning specific work content or locations.