Six.

On the omnipresence of music, sometimes wry, sometimes comical.

“Love Again” was one of my immediate favorites upon the release of Dua Lipa’s 2020 album Future Nostalgia. I remember thinking that that album was a solid pop record: its sledgehammer hooks are underpinned by immaculate grooves, and its sonic palette yearns for the disco ‘70s. It’s no surprise, therefore, that 2020 was also the year that I finally educated myself about the music of the inimitable Donna Summer.

I was raised on the piano. My mother had a great love for the instrument but never had the time to learn, so she would live her dreams through me. Beginning as early as age five, I was expected to practice daily on the household piano, originally an old upright piano that was later swapped out for a baby grand Kawai. During car trips, the radio was only ever attuned to classical stations.

Naturally, as I grew up, I developed my own likes and dislikes. Through my bedroom radio, I discovered the likes of Michelle Branch, Avril Lavigne, and Hilary Duff via Radio Disney. Classmates introduced me to LimeWire, which came into my life just before MySpace did, too. Although it was more widely known for being the proto-Facebook, MySpace was also the premier venue for music discovery, in which I would get lost for hours as I scoured for new music. I wanted the coolest song to display on my profile by musicians who were obscure-but-not-too-obscure, and it’s how I came to be a fan of Taking Back Sunday, Something Corporate, and Senses Fail. Music became my first love because I, like so many others, sought to escape an unhappy home; a catchy melody could take up residence in my head, and obsessing over lyrics occupied my mind. My school journals from this period of my life are still covered in my scrawled doodling as I incorporated into my imagination the lyrics of Hot Fuss, my favorite album by The Killers.

One June day after my big breakup, I wandered SoHo with my sister. In the downstairs section of the MoMA Design Store, she played the opening chords of “Clair de Lune”—one of my favorite melodies of all time—on a standing keyboard, evoking a deep sense of nostalgia from within me. As she played, I told myself that, if I managed to patch things up with Henry, I would play the piano with him.

I can pinpoint the exact moment I realized Henry was falling for me. We had been dating for a couple of months, and I was randomly scrolling through his Instagram feed. (Habitually, on social media, I mute or suppress notifications from the men I date unless I think it’s become serious enough to unmute.) I came across a recent video he’d uploaded of himself sitting at an upright piano in his parents’ home, playing his way through and singing “Love Again.” Partway through watching the video, it struck me that he was singing about me.

I have to admit, I was charmed.

We were still in the early stages of our relationship at that point, but all the signs were there of something more taking root. We were spending all of our time together and I had begun to meet his close friends. He was constantly in my apartment to the point that we were starting to discuss eventually moving in together. I knew he was special, I knew I needed to protect him, yet still I feel like I ultimately screwed it up.

When it all ended, I tried to find refuge in music. (I was basically catatonic, anyways, so all I could do was lay in bed and listen to the same sad songs on repeat.) Each year, I create a playlist of songs that I’ve come to enjoy during that year; 2022’s playlist, however, is still a field of landmines for me all this time later—listening, even now, only transports me back to the darkest chapter of my life, where all I could think about was him, him, and him.

Some of those songs include:
Tina Turner, “Private Dancer”
Harry Styles, “As It Was”
Percy Sledge, “Love Me Tender”
Kehlani, “altar”

In my time of need, music also had a funny way of finding me.

Before this, I’d never spoken to my parents about my love life. It’s a subject for another time, but suffice it to say that credit should be given where it is due: my mother tried. When she learned what had happened, she suggested that I go back to California for a brief reprieve. So, with my tail tucked between my legs, I went home. That year, I returned to California more times than I did in the past half-decade combined.

In my (American) hometown, I tried to recuperate. Being away from the hustle of New York and being away from Henry, I hate to admit, did bring me some measure of relief. I spent time with my loving, dopey, three-legged dog as well as my friends from high school. I even tried to shoehorn myself into (ill-advised) hookups, rationalizing that I needed to learn how to mingle once more.

I agreed to meet one man, someone I’d met only once before, but neither of us was able to host this time. He came up with a solution, claiming that he had a friend who’d offered us their house for our use. The address he gave me looked suspiciously familiar, but still I drove to it, bad idea notwithstanding, because I was a shell of myself and I no longer cared about propriety.

I showed up. I knocked on the front door, he let me in, and we did the deed. Post-coitus an hour later, after I had put myself back together, I left, and—instead of going straight to my parked car—I went next door and rang the doorbell.

The door opened, and I was greeted by my childhood piano teacher.

Because I don’t often revisit my hometown, I’m sometimes asked to look in on her. As I took a seat in her living room, I looked around—two grand pianos side by side, a couple of dogs, a few cats—and recalled all the years I spent in that very same room, oftentimes a welcome reprieve from my quarrelsome parents. She was a fierce, blunt instructor who hailed from Beijing and possessed a strong streak of kindness. She taught me more than just music theory: her home was where I learned how to regularly interact with pet dogs and cats, and it was where I had my first taste of (my now-beloved) oxtail. After one instance of my childhood self breaking down in tears as a result of her tough reprimands, she softened her approach with me and we developed a good rapport.

I hadn’t seen her since I graduated college, so we had a lot to talk about. I told her about my life in New York and that I was in town to attend a wedding, which prompted the evergreen question of when I myself would be getting married. I wasn’t quite in the mood to come out to her at that moment, so I explained to her my ongoing breakup with my “girlfriend.”

She admonished me, telling me not to give up. She told me to go back to “her” apartment every day, with flowers and gifts, until “she” either shooed me away or, God willing, took me back, because that’s what a man does when he’s truly devoted to his partner.

I merely nodded along. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d spent months sending “her” red roses and apologies between New York and Singapore, that I’d bawled my eyes out every night, every week, that I grieved the disappearance of the one person out of all my past lovers I ever wanted to marry, that I was functionally a zombie because I’d lost my better half forever. Thus, I listened to my piano teacher and pretended to agree that I would go back to New York and make all my amends. By then, I already knew that “she” wasn’t ever coming back.

My teacher switched topics to idle gossip. I updated her on the activities of my immediate family; she talked about her neighbors. Interestingly, there was one neighbor in particular who she’d known since he was six years old. Now in his thirties, he was openly gay and still lived in the same house. She’d installed security cameras all over her property and even once called the police to investigate the strange men coming and going from his home…because he lived right next door.

After our visit ended, I drove to a random plaza, where I sat on a nondescript bench and mulled my thoughts over a blended taro slush drink and pan-fried soup dumplings, alone. She’d told me not to give up, but I knew I had to; I was certain that I needed to move on.

As I ate, I pulled out my phone—with its battery at less than five percent—and began another listen of my 2022 playlist.