Unlearning

Where "Rockland" mourns, "Unlearning" attempts something harder — it tries to dismantle the emotional architecture someone else built inside you. The song moves at a deliberate, unhurried pace, Abrams layering her voice over production that feels like early morning light: thin, grey, neither warm nor cold. There's a piano presence that surfaces and recedes like something half-remembered, and the rhythm section — when it appears — is restrained to the point of holding its breath. What makes this track distinctive is its subject matter: not the loss itself but the long, unglamorous process of deprogramming yourself from someone's influence. The way a person's preferences colonize your own, how their anxieties become yours, how you realize months later that you've been performing someone else's version of you. Abrams delivers this with a vocal directness that reads as hard-won — not dramatic, not overwrought, just quietly certain in the way that follows extended confusion. The intimacy is architectural; she keeps the song small on purpose, refusing the redemptive crescendo that would let the listener off the hook emotionally. This is music for the long aftermath, for the Tuesday afternoons of heartbreak rather than its spectacular Saturdays. It would fit in the earbuds of someone on a slow walk, doing nothing in particular, working something out internally that has no clean resolution yet.