I opened the archive and found more than a thousand versions of myself still breathing.
Not dead—never dead. Just suspended. Preserved in signal and silence, in half-finished bridges and choruses that never resolved. Each one a fragment of a girl who thought she was writing songs, when really she was writing her way out.
Out of what, I didn’t understand then.
I called it love.
I called it distance.
I called it timing, misalignment, interference—anything that made the ache feel noble instead of what it was:
