Introduction: A Familiar Tune in the Noise
It was just another late evening. I had my headphones on, the dull glow of my laptop in the background, and my fingers wrapped around a lukewarm mug of coffee. The world outside was quiet, yet inside me, there was static. I wasn’t searching for anything, just letting Spotify shuffle its way through the evening like usual, hoping it would play our song.
And then, it happened.
That one opening chord. Soft, aching, familiar. A beat that stopped my breath mid-sip.
I froze.
The algorithm had found our song.
I hadn’t heard it in months. Maybe a year. Maybe more. But in a single instant, it all came rushing back, the car rides, the laughter, the stolen glances at traffic lights, the playlists we made for each other. All of it. The screen blurred for a second, but it wasn’t the connection, it was me.
The Algorithm That Knew My Heart
Spotify has a funny way of knowing what you’ve forgotten. They call it a recommendation engine, but that night, it felt like an ex-lover whispering your own memories back to you.
We had added that song to a shared playlist once, a long time ago, back when we were still “we.” It wasn’t even a romantic track. Just a song that had scored a particular moment, a lazy Sunday afternoon, windows down, her hair blowing wild, and me pretending not to look like I was already in too deep.
And now here it was, back again, uninvited but not unwelcome. I stared at the screen, at that tiny play bar moving forward, dragging memories with it. I could almost hear her laugh woven between the chords.
The Ghost in the Playlist
The more I listened, the more I began to notice it wasn’t just the song. The algorithm had threaded in others, songs we had danced to in the kitchen, songs she played while getting ready, songs I didn’t know I had remembered until now.
Was this intentional? Had I been listening to them without realizing it? Or was Spotify telling me something I wasn’t ready to hear?
Suddenly, it wasn’t just about music. It was about the spaces she had left, digital echoes in every corner. From playlists to liked tracks, to the account we once shared before we decided “our taste in music” was no longer a good enough reason to stay together.
READ MORE
A Digital Encounter With the Past
I clicked on the old playlist.
It still had her name in the title: “For Morning Drives (ft. Rhea’s Laugh).”
I didn’t remember typing that.
But there it was, untouched, frozen in time.
Her profile icon still appeared as a collaborator, greyed out. The final track added was dated two years ago. A song by Phoebe Bridgers. Of course.
That night, I played the entire playlist. I let it bleed into my space, I let it ache. I wasn’t trying to summon her back. I just wanted to remember what it felt like to feel… everything.
Was It Love, or Just Music?
They say music binds us. But what happens when it becomes the only thing left?
Each track brought back a version of her, unfolding in fragments. I didn’t know whether I missed her, or just the feeling of being known through music.
There was comfort in that playlist, but also a quiet grief. A realization that love, too, can become data. Reduced to patterns, skips, and likes.
We once joked that Spotify knew us better than our friends did. Now, it felt like the only entity still trying to bring us together, even if we were just ghosts in its machine.
Sometimes, music is a time traveler. Other times, it’s a truth-teller. And on that night, it was both. The harmony between what once was and what will never be again.
Letting the Playlist Play On
I didn’t delete the playlist.
I thought I would. But I didn’t.
I renamed it, “Volume Memory.” Something neutral, something vague. But I left her songs untouched. I let the algorithm do its job, knowing that one day, another familiar chord might start playing again, and I’d be ready for the ache.
Or maybe, not.
But for now, the silence that followed the last note was enough.
And maybe that’s okay. Maybe healing isn’t about deleting things, but learning to live with the echoes. With the fragments that still hum quietly in the background of our lives.
Conclusion: When Songs Remember for Us
That night reminded me that not all memories need confrontation. Some simply need a song. A few minutes of feeling, without reason or expectation.
Spotify didn’t mean to hurt me. It just remembered something I had tried to forget. And maybe that’s the beauty of digital love, it’s never really gone. It just waits for the right beat, the right moment, to remind you that once, it was real.
Even if the person is gone, the playlist plays on.
Even if we’ve changed, the songs we loved never do.
And when the algorithm plays our song again, I’ll let it. Every time.
