Requiem

A propulsive, fractured piece built on piano arpeggios that feel simultaneously hymn-like and anxious, "Requiem" opens with an almost liturgical stillness before Ben Platt's voice tears through it with barely contained resentment. The tempo surges and recedes like grief that refuses to behave properly — this is not a mourning song in the traditional sense, but something rawer and more honest: the anger of being left behind by someone who made your life harder. Rachel Bay Jones and Jennifer Laura Thompson add counterpoint that complicates the emotional picture, layering denial and guilt against Platt's defiance. The production stays relatively spare for much of the song, which makes the swells land harder. Lyrically it circles the question of whether you're allowed to feel relieved when someone difficult dies, and the musical theater craft here is remarkable — the melody is gorgeous enough that the ugliness of the sentiment sneaks up on you. You'd reach for this driving alone at night when processing an emotion you're not proud of, or when grieving a relationship that was already broken before it ended.