I came to last.fm believing in kinship—that shared sound meant shared understanding. I sent careful messages to strangers whose libraries mirrored mine, thinking resonance could bridge the distance.

Most never answered. A few flickered in, then drifted out again. I reread my words, searching for the moment I misstepped.

The platform promised community, but everyone was curating themselves into symbols. Scrobbles became performance. Taste became currency. Devotion felt manufactured.

I didn’t leave in anger. Just tiredness. You can only speak into silence for so long before your breath runs out.

There’s a grief that comes with watching “community” turn into content. Forums warped into engagement loops; Discords where noise replaces presence; timelines where passion is flattened into brand identity.

People claim to love music without ever listening to it. Not really. Not with their body.

I don’t mourn what never existed.
I mourn what felt possible.

We were mutuals once. Shared stories of aging, concerts, unraveling and mending. Then I clicked something wrong late one night and unfriended her without realizing.

I apologized. She unfriended back. I added her again—maybe twice. She didn’t return.

Panic bloomed. I wiped comments, deleted accounts, resurfaced, disappeared again. Every gesture landed in the void.

And then she reappeared as if nothing had happened.

The silence around it felt sharp. No acknowledgment. No breath given to the rupture. Eventually she blocked me, then accused me of following her shadows across the internet.

There’s a particular exhaustion in being cast as a threat in someone else’s myth. Once a person decides you’re the villain, even your retreat becomes proof.

I left—not in protest, not in heartbreak, just weary. Some spaces lose their sanctity long before you step out of them.

I deleted accounts the way other people delete text messages—compulsively, hoping to undo what already happened.

The pattern was always the same: I’d write something passionate, detailed, too much. Hours later, the shame would arrive. Why did I say that? Who asked for a paragraph? I sound unhinged.

So I’d delete the comment. Then the account. Then start over with a new name, convinced this time I’d learn to be brief. Palatable. Normal.

My AuDHD brain doesn’t work that way. It pours when it should measure. It fixates when it should move on. It re-examines every word for proof I failed the invisible test.

Each new account was a prayer: maybe this version of me will finally belong.

They never did. Because the problem wasn’t the name—it was a platform that mistakes enthusiasm for performance, and depth for disorder.

I wasn’t unstable. I was just trying to exist in a space that couldn’t hold me.