thanks for the new hyperfix. i'm going to listen to this all day long

What I Kept is not just an album—it’s a collection of quiet confessions left in the wake of every storm and loss. Each song is a gentle touch on a lonely soul, a fingerprint on a midnight window where both pain and hope shimmer side by side.

There are no triumphant endings here, no easy answers. This is music for those who have found themselves alone—when only cold and echo fill the hallway, yet a fragile light still flickers inside. Every track carries a voice unafraid of vulnerability: sometimes whispering into the void, sometimes hurling silent questions at the night, sometimes tenderly gathering all that’s been lost, refusing to forget what truly makes us alive.

The album opens with the slow dawn of solitude, when the coffee has gone cold and shadows of unsolved memories creep across the floor. From there—stone steps of memory, impossible letters, unsent words, maps nobody follows, and flames burning only for the self.

Each song is a memory, a fragile promise not to lose what remains after all the goodbyes. Here, wounds aren’t hidden—they’re traced gently by the hand and turned into music, so that through sound and silence, you can touch again what’s left inside.

What I Kept is for those who still keep a light behind closed curtains, who speak with the quiet, who walk on—slowly, alone, but with an open heart.

SanaA Bova_What I kept

High Alone

She carries a map…
But the road?
A ghost.
Her footsteps vanish before dawn. Her prayers are written in forgotten languages. Her dreams burn faster than her letters.

This is not just a song—
It’s a story of those who wander too far,
Of girls who walk alone through winds no one else dares to face,
Chasing stars no one else can see.

No one waits for her.
No one stays.
But still—she walks.
Still—she maps.

Nobody Waits for the Girl with a Map

She once lit lanterns for everyone else, folding each farewell into a silent prayer, naming the wind after broken promises. Her harbor grew hollow as ships slipped away into fog — and every return was only a ghost she dared not greet.

This is the dock no one returns to.
A heart no one stays in.
A single pillow worn thin, a name etched in frost on the window.

She writes her longing in salt, asks the sea if tides can turn, but the waves only answer in drowning and the stars retreat behind clouds. Love was always a ship without anchor, mistaking her for safe harbor, then fading into the night.

Let violins weep for all the years she stayed silent; let dreams drift in empty bottles over moonless waters.
And when the chorus swells, it’s not for a welcome — it’s for the waiting.

This is the dock, yes—
where even the moon turns away.

And yet she waits—
not for a ship,
but for a reason
to dismantle the shore.

The Dock No One Returns To

She used to sleep beside the door, weaving hope into her mornings and singing quietly to the silence.
She crossed cities that existed only in stories and wore her scars like colored glass in a hidden chapel.
Some called her dreamer, others forgot her name—
but she always returned to the place where longing burned gently, just beneath the skin.
Maybe you’ve met her in your own shadow, or seen her reflection in a dark window late at night.
Who is she now?
Listen and decide: is she a ghost, a memory, or the fire still burning inside you?
I remember her—
and maybe, if you listen closely, you will too.


Lyrics written by #SanaABova

The music, born through a blend of my human vision and AI creation via Suno, becomes something more than sound —
It’s a key. 

Dare to listen.

I Remember Her

She was told not to cry too loud, not to dream too far, not to write her story in song. But every scar became steel, and every silence — a battlefield. This is not a hymn for comfort, nor a prayer for forgiveness. This is the march that needs no drums.

Her voice rises, chainless, naming flames in the darkness that once tried to swallow her. No more blurred lines, no more velvet shame—this is the anthem of drawing the line.

She once carried storms that were not hers, wore apologies like disguises. Now she walks without hush, seeks no careful applause. Her scars confess, her fire does not ask permission. The old myths, the old silences, are shattered on the road behind her.

I am not your muse.
Not your redemption.
I am the cost of every time you said "Not now."
This is my march.
This is my name—
and I will not extinguish again.

If you hear thunder in the quiet,
if you feel heat where there should be none—
listen closer.

March Without Drums

The coffee’s cold, the windows never quite close, and silence hums in the walls like an old, familiar ache. In this blue-lit apartment, memories fold quietly into the sleeves of an unraveling sweater, and the glow of screens flickers like a dream outgrown but never truly lost.

She plays songs for strangers who will never understand—each note drifting through shadows that dance on the floor. Time is measured by dishes and daydreams, by letters never sent and candles burning for no one in particular. Sometimes she pretends someone is watching from where love still burns, but even ghosts have places to go when no one returns.

Loneliness isn’t emptiness here—it’s a room full of echoes: half-answered prayers, unfinished songs, wishes whispered into the blue.

She doesn’t ask for someone to save her—just for someone to knock on the door.
But the blue light stays on.
Still here.
Still gone.

If you’ve ever sat in the hush of a blue-lit night,
if you’ve ever waited for footsteps that never came—
listen.
You might hear your own story
echoing in the blue.

Blue Light Apartment

She’s searched for you in the rain-soaked streets of Amsterdam, behind the fogged windows of Prague, in the salt air of Lisbon and the neon hush of Berlin.
Sometimes you answered to Daniel Gray, sometimes to Hope, sometimes only to a memory she could not name.

Each city, each bed, each passing flame—she built you from shadows and ache, stitched your myth from poems scrawled on receipts and half-drunk promises.
She called you Truth, Lie, One More Try… and lost you, every time, all the same.

"I’ve loved you under different names," she whispers, glass raised in dim-lit silence, laughter catching on the edge of regret.
Tonight, she toasts not to the faces that vanished with the morning train, but to the echo that remains—
Love, with no last name.

#IveLovedYouUnderDifferentNames #SanaABova #WanderingBallad #LostAndFound #CityOfGhosts

I’ve Loved You Under Different Names

MAGICMAN 2

Everything

Not For Me

Made Me a Man

Access

Hello, dreamers and seekers — it’s me, SanaA Bova.
I want to open this new chapter with a confession.
through my music...

I am a writer and poet who studies psychology and the deepest emotions of the soul. My music is a reflection of my inner state, which has shifted to melodies.

I’ve Loved You Under Different Names

Bova Team

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