DEAR ELLA,

I was at your Solar Power concert yesterday, rapidly trying to decide between purchasing the yellow t-shirt or the cap to commemorate this evening, when my eyes sheet of paper to properly articu late my thoughts.

A 16-year-old girl had just burst through her bedroom door from a long day of pretending she was enjoying the lessons on refraction and reflection. The first song of yours that I heard (aside from Royals, of course, because that one’s a given) was Liability. At a time when a teenage girl feels the most monstrous and a little bit too much, this song cloaked me in the comfort of knowing that someone else – you, at that – could feel the same way. I spent the rest of my afternoon twirling and tip-toeing alone in my bedroom, humming to the light piano keys of your song.

When I had my first high school crush, The Louvre became the soundtrack that intensified the soft and pinkish hue of puppy love. I later learnt that it was unrequited – he liked my other friend instead – and so, Supercut served as an upbeat bandage.

The reason being this parasocial relationship of ours predates this concert, extending all the way back to one hot and humid day in the unassuming suburbs of Kuala Lumpur.

On my final night of college, I had burnt Ribs into a mixtape I made for my three high school best friends. We don’t talk as much anymore, time is a villain that way, but every time I hear the rhythmic punch of the snare drum and the lyrics, “you’re the only friend I need”, I’m immediately transported to the days we spent gossiping on the foyer, the long-winded what ifs and elaborate stories we tell of our future, the belly-aching laughter,