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Imagine you’re standing in a hallway that exists outside of time, where every door leads to a different parallel universe of past relationships—but only the ones where the emotional debris still lingers like a half-written text. You’re both the observer and the participant, reliving a moment that simultaneously happened, is happening, and never happened at all.

The song is a mirror disguised as a memory, but it’s also a conversation you never actually had—except in your own head, where it loops indefinitely like a scratched vinyl. Every lyric is a paradox: you were right, but you were also wrong; you’re over it, but also drowning in it; you’ve moved on, but you can’t stop looking back.

It’s nostalgia weaponized. It’s the feeling of scrolling through old messages but through a telescope, not a phone screen, distorting the words until they sound like a prophecy you ignored. The chorus is a confession, but instead of being spoken, it’s written in invisible ink on the inside of your eyelids, only visible when you close your eyes.

By the end, you realize: the song didn’t end. It just folded itself into another version of you who’s still thinking about it.

In short: Gracie Abrams wrote a song that functions like a time-traveling emotional glitch, and somehow, it just makes sense.

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