There’s a version of love that sounds good on speakers.
It has clean endings. Clear intentions. People say what they mean, feel what they say, and leave without taking parts of you with them.
I don’t recognize that version.
What I recognize is what stays after.
Not the relationship itself, but the residue it leaves behind. The way your body remembers something your mind already decided to forget. The way certain places feel louder even when they’re quiet. The way you start explaining yourself less, because you’re not even sure what part of the story was real.
That’s what I write.
Not the moment you fall, but the moment you realize you didn’t land where you thought you would.
When people talk about love songs, they usually mean something aspirational. Something that gives shape to a feeling they want to believe in.
But most of what I’ve seen doesn’t work like that.
It’s messier. Less cinematic. More repetitive than we like to admit.
It’s going back to the same person not because it makes sense, but because your system got used to the way they made you feel. It’s knowing something is off and still choosing not to interrupt it. It’s staying just long enough to confuse attachment with meaning.
And then, eventually, it ends.
Not always with a clear moment. Sometimes it just fades into distance. Sometimes it breaks in a way that forces clarity. But either way, what comes after is rarely talked about.
That’s the part that interests me.
I think that’s also why people connect to my music.
Not because it explains something new, but because it doesn’t try to fix anything.
It just sits in that space most people avoid.
The space where you replay conversations differently. Where you notice patterns you ignored before. Where you understand what happened, but too late for it to change anything.
There’s a strange honesty in that moment.
Not the kind that feels good. The kind that feels accurate.
Being based in Milan changed the way I look at this.
It’s a city that looks composed on the surface. Structured. Intentional. But if you stay long enough, you start noticing the fractures underneath. The parts that don’t quite align with the image.
People are not that different.
We learn how to present things in a way that makes sense externally, even when internally it’s unresolved.
Music, at least for me, is one of the few places where that contradiction doesn’t need to be cleaned up.
There’s something else I’ve been thinking about recently.
What happens when those internal experiences are no longer individual.
When they exist in the same physical space.
On June 6, I’ll be in a small room with people who, in one way or another, have felt versions of the same things I’m writing about. Not the same stories, not the same details, but the same emotional patterns.
And that changes something.
Because when you’re listening alone, everything feels personal, almost isolated. Like it belongs only to you.
But when you’re in a room where the silence between songs carries weight, where reactions are not exaggerated but felt, you start to realize those experiences are not as individual as they seemed.
No one says it out loud.
But you can feel it.
In the way people don’t look at each other too much. In the way certain lines land heavier than others. In the way the room holds something that isn’t being explained.
That kind of connection doesn’t need to be performed.
It just exists.
I’m not interested in writing songs that resolve emotions.
I’m more interested in documenting them as they are.
Incomplete. Contradictory. Sometimes uncomfortable.
Because most of the time, that’s where the truth actually is.
Not in the moment things begin.
But in everything that happens after.
