As I Drive (or walk) Home Alone…

Does Music Help or Hurt Our Heartbreak?

By Gianna Ucci

Every Saturday night, just before the city goes to sleep, I find myself walking home after a night with my friends—with the city in front of me and my headphones on. I see people leaving the library late, couples going home together, friends trying desperately to “call it a night,” yet despite the lives surrounding me, I find myself feeling more alone.

“Superstar” by the Carpenters plays as I cross the street, and I begin to think of that one situ-relation-catastrophic-dumpsterfire-friend-ship. In a time where I get to be completely brainless, all the memories still flood back. I wonder where they could be on a night like tonight—maybe at home, out with friends, or walking home with the same reflective nature as me. “Don’t you remember you told me you loved me baby,” I hear, but now I struggle to remember if he ever even said it.

“Thinking of You” by Katy Perry is next on autoplay—what was that guy’s name from the other night? Have I found myself moving on too fast? How did I actually feel about him? I skip the turn to my street to keep thinking. I wonder if I’ve ever truly been in love before, and if I wasn’t, why do I still find myself thinking about all the words that were never said. Do I think he “should know?” Do I call him?

Now, it’s “Guilty as Sin” by Taylor Swift: what were we? I’m walking with no destination, alone, with the ghost of what could have been beside me. I think of moments we never shared, experiences that never happened, a different life I could have pursued. “Am I allowed to cry?” How is it possible to experience emotions with no real-world origin? How can I possibly focus on the road ahead of me when the world seems to be in my head. I keep recalling things we never did, but what exactly did we have? The memories flood back. I feel comforted, but I can’t stop shaking. I don’t want to go home, but I don’t know where I’m going. It’s exciting to think of the road ahead, until the path eventually ends, and you have to turn back around. Maybe turning around is resigning, or maybe it’s a sign to find a new destination.

“We can’t be friends (wait for your love)” by Ariana Grande plays after I turn around at a dead end—sometimes you need to find a new street. Sometimes it’s nice to think of what could have been, but focusing on reality can only help you grow. Like the words of the songs we can’t turn off, we can’t shake the feeling of heartbreak: we need to learn to embrace it. Our relationships are what make us, and the nights where we can’t stop crying are what help us get in touch with ourselves. The people who have hurt us can teach us our values: how we process our emotions, how we express our feelings, and how we learn to reconcile, not only with others but with ourselves, too. It’s nice to envision the ghost of what could have been guiding you home at night, yet you have two hands—so you hold your own. “So, for now it’s only me, and maybe that’s all I need.”

“Dancing on my Own” by Robyn begins, and I reach my door and walk up to my room. My roommate is still out, there are remnants of the night before everywhere, and my friends have left some of their belongings on my bed; yet despite being physically alone, the life surrounding me only grows stronger. I kick my shoes off and start to dance. There’s no I in TEAM, but there is one in DISCO. “The lights go on, the music dies,” I take out my headphones, shower, and go to bed.