I wrote Last Goodbye from a place where endings weren’t clear, but their weight already was.
It came during a time when two kinds of loss were sitting side by side — a relationship that had shifted beyond recognition, and the quiet awareness that any goodbye, in other parts of my life, could suddenly become final. I remember leaving a conversation that felt tender and unresolved, wondering if that moment marked an ending I wasn’t ready to accept.
The song lives in that uncertainty.
Lyrically, I wanted to leave the nature of the loss open. Last Goodbye isn’t about one specific kind of separation — it’s about the void that appears when someone is no longer where they used to be, whether through heartbreak, distance, or death. The grief is slow, almost understated. It shows up in the pauses, the forced smiles, the moments where memory catches you off guard and pulls the air from your lungs.
Musically, everything is built to feel suspended. The piano moves gently, the harmonies swell and recede, and the rhythm carries a sense of being underwater — held, slowed, slightly out of time. I wanted it to feel sparse but never empty. Soft, but not fragile. There’s strength in the restraint.
The line “I’m learning how to live again in a world that doesn’t have you” still lands heavily for me. Not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s true. Grief often isn’t loud — it’s the quiet work of adapting to absence, learning how to breathe in a space someone else once filled.
Last Goodbye is a song about that adjustment. About staying with the ache without rushing to resolve it. About honouring what’s been lost, while slowly finding a way to keep going.