It’s not just a song. It’s a place I return to when everything else keeps shifting. My brain moves too fast, too far, too scattered — and somehow, music finds me anyway. When the right song hits, it feels like alignment. Like the rhythm finally matches the static in my head.

So, I stay there. I hit repeat. I stay until the edges blur, and the world stops scraping against me. People call it obsession, but that’s not what this is. It’s stability. It’s survival. It’s the comfort of knowing what comes next when nothing else makes sense. The chorus hits. The same lyric folds over me, again and again.

It cracks something open — but softly. And it’s okay, because I knew it was coming. Music doesn’t ask me to explain. It doesn’t need me to be better, or quieter, or fixed. It just plays. Over and over, until my thoughts start breathing in rhythm. Until my heartbeat remembers what calm sounds like.

That’s why I love it. Because when I can’t focus, it holds me. When I can’t feel, it reminds me I still can. And when I can’t find the words, it says them for me, the same song, the same line, the same moment, until I finally breathe in time with it.