I was unconsciously listening to this band—half-distracted, multitasking my way through homework—when something caught in my chest and made me stop. I paused everything and listened to the whole album start to finish without even realizing I had surrendered to it. There’s something drunkenly beautiful about hearing something you weren’t prepared for. No build-up. No anticipation. Just impact. And with all the mental quaffs I’ve poured myself this week, I’d say this band hit the top shelf.

It’s a short album, but every second feels steeped in honesty and quiet desperation. It doesn’t beg you to like it—it just exists, wide-eyed and open-palmed. It’s the sound of someone telling the truth even when it doesn’t help them. That kind of emotional exposure hits hard, especially when you’re not asking for it. This album doesn’t show off—it shows what I already know: that we try.

We try to love, and more often than not, we already know the outcome before it begins. Every new connection comes laced with an echo of its ending. We can sense it, deep down—feel the warning in our chest, hear the murmur in our own gut. But we ignore it. Because we want to be surprised. This album plays like that moment of quiet clarity you get after the chaos, when you realize how often you’ve hurt someone just by not being ready.

It’s a slow collapse wrapped in melody. A kind of emotional post-mortem. There’s guilt in these songs, and grief, and also an exhausted kind of hope—the kind that still bothers to show up even when you’re certain you’ve screwed it all up. This isn’t background music. This is a mirror you don’t want to look into, but can’t quite turn away from. It’s beautiful because it’s cracked.

And maybe that’s the point. That some of the most moving music doesn’t fix you. It just tells you you’re not the only one who’s broken in this exact shape. And for right now, that’s enough.