I remember it vividly—stumbling through my YouTube algorithm, my affection for poetry, music, and art quietly conspiring to place Kyle “Guante” Tran Myhre’s "Love in the Time of Undeath" at the top of my suggestions. His voice, gravelly and alive, delivered each word with a ferocity that felt like it was aimed directly at me. I tripped over every syllable, carried by its potency. In that moment, as I sat in a relationship with a new partner that felt more hollow than whole, it was as if the algorithm was whispering something I wasn’t ready to hear. 

Three years later, that same voice—raw and moody—resurfaced, this time underscoring a new dance track from a British laptop producer that slipped into my Spotify rotation like a ghost with a message. Three years on, and on the other side of that relationship, questioning the future. My lifelong obsession with curating music prickled with recognition. Before the song’s first chorus faded, I knew. I was among the first to hear it, to fall for it, to follow Fred again. And again. And again. And now, I have found you, and those words land more profoundly and more deeply now, each listen, knowing I have found my other half. Knowing how much more I wanted from love and from life, from Kyle's battle cry, his call to romantic arms.

Resonance isn’t just something we hear. It’s something we feel, as though the universe nudges us toward what we need before we even know we’re ready to listen.

there was one time i heard this and i didn’t feel like crying anymore. all the other times, i felt that loneliness hit me right in the chest. but this time, for the first time, with you i didn’t feel lost anymore. i didn’t even expect it, i just realised as this was playing and we were there together at the show that i felt like i finally found someone i could really belong with. i dont think i’d ever had that before. i looked at you and felt so happy, i think i squeezed your hand. thank you.