Her voice comes in tiny first—just that yo, y-yo loop, seating the body before any confession.

Full line now: it could all be so simple, and those soft baby answers crowd right in around her.

She says you'd rather make it hard, but the band doesn't flinch—same calm walk underneath.

Loving you is like a battle—hear the backs throw it right back at her.

Tell me who I have to be. The harmony keeps turning; it never quite hands her a clean home.

No one loves you more than me. The room widens that line, then leaves her alone in the middle again.

Silly game, she calls it, over a groove too disciplined to sound like play.

Who I have to be comes back already worn down—same question, less freshness.

Listen—the steps get shorter here. No matter how I think we grow, then it ain't working, plain.

This is crazy, twice. Not decoration—more like a diagnosis she can't finish.

And we're right back in the verse bed. I keep letting you back in, same moving floor as before.

You let go, I'll let go too—almost a bargain—then no one's hurt me more than you cuts it.

Chorus again on the same bones. It ain't working isn't news anymore; it's the bar she keeps walking into.

Now the asks stack fast—care for me, there for me, cry for me, give to me—like proofs being revised mid-breath.

Everything shrinks to where? Short question, big hole under it.

Where were you hangs, and the voices fray into calls and vowels while the pulse just keeps going.

Those da-da figures are carrying the question now—where were you when I needed you—as the track starts to thin.

Just you, you, you. The address turns into its own little pulse against what's left of the band.

Last traces over a groove already letting go. Then the motion drops, and the empty space is the answer.