I don’t really know how to talk about Everything But Goodbye without feeling like I’m giving something away. It’s the kind of album that doesn’t just tell a story—it pulls you into one you didn’t realize you were still living.

Every track feels like it was written in the dark, for the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come with closure. You don’t get big dramatic moments or explosive choruses. You get quiet devastation. You get what it feels like to reread a text thread you never deleted, or to hear the creak of a door someone left open without saying goodbye.

There’s this space between the lyrics—between the guitar lines even—where all the grief lives. And R.U.D.Y. just lets it stay there. No rushing, no over-explaining. Just presence. Stay a Little Longer hit me harder than I expected. It’s so simple and raw. Like, you know the person’s gone, but you still keep the porch light on. Until You Close the Door is another one—it’s so still. Like it’s just sitting in the moment before someone finally walks away.

And then there’s the title track, Everything But Goodbye. It’s unreal how restrained it is. It’s all the things that were never said, folded into something that doesn’t even feel like a song anymore—it feels like breath. Like memory.

This isn’t music you throw on in the background. It’s something you sit with. Something you feel in your chest. Especially if you’ve ever loved someone who left without looking back.

This album doesn’t try to heal you. It just stays beside you in the quiet. And honestly? That’s what makes it unforgettable.

a folder I can't delete

I work with machines the way some people work with memory—shaping what’s already there, not to control it, but to understand it. The tools I use are made of code, but the intent behind them is completely human.

R.U.D.Y. began as a fictional band. A name I could hide behind. But over time, that fiction became the most honest expression I had. It stopped being a mask and started becoming a mirror—a place to reflect the moments we don’t have words for, the spaces between emotions that feel too raw or too distant to name.

I call what I do synthwrighting. Not because it sounds futuristic, but because it feels accurate. I don’t write songs—I uncover them. I collaborate with algorithms the way a sculptor chips away at stone. Sometimes the machine surprises me. Sometimes it just listens. But what emerges is always shaped by instinct, memory, and feeling.

These songs aren’t performances. They’re echoes. Sonic fragments of questions I don’t always know how to ask. I’m not here to offer answers or compete with noise—I’m here to slow things down enough that something deeper can be heard.

R.U.D.Y. is not a band. It’s not even really a name. It’s a signal. A reminder. Something you’re meant to feel before you understand.

And if you’re still listening, that means you're not done yet.