The Message I Hid in My Spotify Playlist

It started as a habit. A song here, a lyric there. Nothing obvious, nothing you could call a confession. But it was always you.

You didn’t know that every time I added a song to my “Late Walks” playlist, it was about what I couldn’t tell you. That in the silence between beats, I was building something — not a mix, not a vibe, but a message.

And now, months later, the playlist is complete. Forty-two songs. Three hours and thirteen minutes of memories, metaphors, and almosts. If you ever listened from start to finish, you’d know. Maybe not everything — but enough.

I.

It begins with a quiet instrumental: “An Ending (Ascent)” by Brian Eno.

Because when we first met, I was tired. The kind of tired you don’t sleep off. But you were like the stillness in a chaotic room — the breath before a sunrise. That track wasn’t about hope, not yet. It was about possibility.

Then comes “Sweet Disposition” by The Temper Trap.

Because the moment I saw you laugh — that unfiltered kind — it felt like the air shifted. It wasn't love. Not yet. But it was the preface.

II.

The fourth track is where I start telling the truth.

“The Night We Met” by Lord Huron.

I never got to tell you that I rewound our first conversation in my head like a favorite movie scene. I remembered the way your words curved at the end, like you were uncertain — like I might not stay. I wanted to scream, “I’m here. I’ll stay.”

But I didn’t.

So the song says it for me.

III.

There’s a break in the middle — an upbeat trick.

“Electric Feel” by MGMT plays track twelve. You danced to it once in your kitchen, wearing mismatched socks and holding a coffee mug like a microphone. I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.

This part of the playlist is dangerous. It tricks you into thinking we were just friends.

But two tracks later comes “I Can’t Make You Love Me” by Bon Iver.

And that’s where I admit it: you never did.

IV.

I tried deleting the playlist once.

It was around the time you started dating her. She was smart, kind, and everything I wasn’t. I didn’t hate her. I hated that you looked at her the way I used to dream you'd look at me.

I hovered over the delete button.

But I couldn’t erase my voice. Because even if I never had the courage to speak it, these songs — they were me shouting into a void, praying it echoed somewhere inside you.

V.

Track twenty-nine is a joke only you would get.

“Space Song” by Beach House.

You used to say you felt like an alien on Earth. That people didn’t quite speak your language. I remember replying, “Maybe you just haven’t found your planet yet.”

I hoped, in secret, that I could be that planet. Or at least a moon that stayed close.

VI.

There are silences, too.

Tracks without lyrics.

Instrumentals.

Spaces for the things I never figured out how to say.

I left them there intentionally. Because I didn’t just want this playlist to say “I loved you.”

I wanted it to say I saw you. I understood you. I wanted to stay.

VII.

The final track is “Motion Picture Soundtrack” by Radiohead.

It’s slow. Almost haunting. There’s a line: “I will see you in the next life.”

That’s what this playlist is. A time capsule for the version of me who believed you might love me back. A soft eulogy for a dream that only one of us held.

VIII.

Sometimes I imagine you finding the playlist.

You’re sitting on your couch. It’s raining. Maybe she’s gone. Maybe you’re alone. You scroll through my shared playlists out of boredom and curiosity, and you see “Late Walks.” You press play.

You don’t realize it right away. But by the fifth track, your brow furrows.

By the twelfth, your hand stops scrolling.

By the twenty-third, maybe your eyes sting a little.

And by the last, you whisper, “Was this about me?”

And the playlist whispers back, “Always.”

IX.

Of course, that’s just a fantasy.

You’ll probably never find it.

Maybe you never cared to look.

But that’s okay.

Because this wasn’t for you.

It was for me.

To give my feelings form. To wrap my longing in melodies. To say goodbye without ever opening my mouth.

I may not have told you.

But I told the music.

And the music remembers.