I'm still playing the song that never aired

I was walking through a tunnel under the city, and the air smelled like wet concrete and old vinyl. The lights flickered in time with a melody I couldn’t place—something slow, aching, like a love letter left in a drawer. Then I heard my own voice on the radio, not from the past, but from some version of me that kept going after I’d stopped. It said, 'This one’s for the person who didn’t call back.' And the song played—just once—and then it faded into silence. I woke up at 4:37, heart racing. I don’t know if I ever recorded it. Or if it even exists.