Roar

This is a song built like a fist opening. The production is punchy and kinetic — compressed percussion, a guitar line that has real bite to it, a rhythm that physically urges movement. But what the musical staging does to this already-charged pop anthem is layer theatrical intention over a track that was already operating at full conviction. The version that lives in & Juliet carries the specific weight of a woman who has been handed a prescribed story — marry young, die beautifully, let the tragedy belong to someone else — and is now refusing every single clause of that contract. The vocal performance is not subtle; it is loud and certain in the way only someone who has been quiet too long can be loud. The bridge provides the one moment of gathering before the final chorus hits with the accumulated force of everything that was held back. Lyrically reframed through the musical's conceit, the roar is not metaphorical bravado but a direct response to narrative erasure — a Shakespearean heroine insisting on being the author rather than the subject. The song belongs to a strand of pop music that weaponizes the major key, making joy feel like resistance. You would reach for this at the moment you decide to stop waiting for permission.