Static Between Songs: A Story About Memory, Music, and the Tracks That Follow Us

There are certain summers that don’t seem important until much later—until the songs you once played casually suddenly echo louder than ever before. For me, that summer was 2021, and the playlist that carried it has followed me like a shadow. I didn’t build it with intention. It wasn’t something I meant to preserve. But the songs stayed, and with them, a person I thought I had finally forgotten.

His name wasn’t Kevin, but that’s what I’ll call him. The truth is simpler than fiction: we were never officially anything. But we existed in that soft, blurry space where two people orbit each other long enough that the world quietly rearranges itself around their presence. Some connections never become relationships, yet leave a deeper mark than the ones that do.

1. A Summer Without a Plan

We met by chance, the way good stories often begin. He lived with his mother then, in a quiet house watched over by an orange cat who walked with the confidence of a creature who owned more of the world than we did. Most days we didn’t plan anything; we simply wandered around Eau Claire, letting the hours fill themselves.

When we were indoors, we’d lie side-by-side for hours, talking in pieces or not talking at all. Netflix ran in the background, but the real show was the way time slowed down around him. It wasn’t love—not then, not exactly. It was something gentler, something undefined and therefore safer.

When we showered together for the first time, he didn’t turn on the overhead lights. Instead, he switched on a tiny disco lamp so the room glowed in soft colors. He knew I was shy, knew harsh lights made me uncomfortable. It was such a small gesture, but small gestures are often the ones that stay.

2. The Night of the Burning Bread

There’s one memory I still replay like a track stuck on loop. It was August 19, 2021. We were making a pizza, something so routine it barely deserves retelling—except the moment the oven caught fire. Flames shot up behind the glass. We froze for half a second before he opened the door and muttered a curse under his breath.

Inside the oven was not a pan or a tray, not a half-made meal or forgotten leftovers. It was slices of bread. Loose slices. Someone had put them there for reasons we never learned.

He grabbed them with tongs, ran them under water, and we laughed until we were breathless. It wasn’t the fire I remembered. It was the way joy could spark even in the middle of chaos, how easy it felt to breathe with him next to me.

3. Threads That Never Fully Break

But summer ends, even when you’re not ready. He had just left a serious relationship, and though I never asked for more, something inside me wanted it anyway. When he drifted back toward his ex, I wasn’t surprised. Hurt, yes. Angry, no. You can’t lose what you never had—but you can miss it.

We didn’t sever contact. Every few months, one of us would send a simple message. A check-in. A reminder. A thread stretched thin but not broken.

This is where Spotify comes in.

I kept the playlist from that summer. I didn’t touch it, didn’t edit it, didn’t update it. But every once in a while, one of those songs would find its way back to me through the algorithm, as if the app knew something I didn’t.

A song called “August” would start playing, unprompted.

Or “Lost in the Light.”

Or “The Night We Met.”

They carried memories in their melodies—memories of porch lights, inside jokes, walking aimlessly through a city that suddenly felt too small for anything except possibility.

Music doesn’t forget. Even when we want it to.

4. 115 Miles Away, and Still Too Close

Fast forward to 2025. He lives 115 miles away now. A different town, a different life. Yet somehow the thread between us pulled tight again. We started talking more. Slowly at first, then daily. His humor hadn’t changed. He still teased exactly the way he used to, still struck the perfect balance between annoying and irresistible.

It was strange—like slipping into a sweater I had packed away years ago. Comfortable. Familiar. A little dangerous.

One night, while I was cleaning my apartment, Spotify shuffled to a song that instantly sent a shiver through me: “Out of My League.” It was one of his favorites. He used to hum it absentmindedly while searching for snacks in the kitchen.

And just like that, the summer I had spent three years trying to forget returned with full color.

5. The Playlist You Don’t Delete

People say music connects us, but sometimes music traps us. It holds time still. A playlist built accidentally becomes a time capsule—one you open without meaning to.

Every song on that playlist was a chapter, even if I didn’t realize I was writing a story at the time:

The song we played while walking by the river

The one that faded into the background while we watched terrible horror movies

The song that played softly the night he told me he didn’t know what he wanted

And the song I listened to afterward, alone in my room, pretending I was fine

Spotify doesn’t know heartbreak, but it knows patterns. It kept showing me those songs. Not enough to hurt—just enough to remind me.

6. When Music Becomes Memory

I’ve always believed music is memory wearing headphones. It sneaks up on you, bypassing logic entirely. You can talk yourself out of missing someone, but you can’t talk yourself out of hearing them.

This is what I realized:

It wasn’t Kevin I was attached to.

It was the version of myself I was with him.

A little lighter.

A little braver.

A little less lonely.

The playlist from 2021 wasn’t about us. It was about who I allowed myself to be when he was around.

7. Where the Story Stands Now

Will I see him again? Maybe. Maybe not. Life has a habit of looping in unpredictable ways, the same way Spotify quietly brings old songs into new playlists.

But I don’t flinch when those tracks come on anymore. I let them play.

Some stories don’t need perfect endings.

Some memories don’t need closure.

Some people drift in and out like interludes—brief, beautiful, and unforgettable.

And sometimes, a playlist is all that remains.

Final Track

If you’ve ever had a person tied to a song, a season, or a stray melody, then you understand. Music carries the versions of us we don’t know how to mourn. But it also teaches us how to move forward—one song at a time.

Maybe that’s the real magic of Spotify:Not endless playlists, but an endless invitation to remember, reflect, and eventually, release.