Alright, so this album, Silent Roads, is one of those deeply haunting, intimate collections that takes you right into the heart of lost love and longing. Imagine an album that feels like wandering down empty roads at night, where every song is like a memory coming back to life, even though it’s painful. The songs all have this soft, slow, acoustic feel, with instruments like piano, violin, and especially the guitar, which just aches with every note. It’s like the guitar itself is grieving, you know?

Each track really explores the weight of what’s left behind after a relationship falls apart—not just the sadness, but the regret, the unanswered questions, and that bittersweet “what if” that never goes away. The lyrics are so raw and direct, they kind of hit you with all the things we usually try to bury or avoid. Some tracks are about missed moments and things unsaid, while others are more about finally letting go, even though you’re not ready.

It’s all told from this really vulnerable perspective, with baritone vocals that feel weary and deeply reflective, like he’s just sitting there, talking to himself or maybe to her ghost. There are songs that mention memories of shared laughter, promises that couldn’t last. It’s incredibly poetic but painfully relatable, especially if you’ve ever gone through a breakup that left you with a sense of unfinished business.

I’d say Silent Roads is less about moving on and more about understanding that some love stays with you, no matter how far you go. It’s one of those albums where you don’t just listen; you feel it. Perfect for late nights when you just want to be alone with your thoughts.

silent roads

Stayed is an album about the kinds of love that don’t shout, but linger. Built on quiet moments, half-closed doors, and the echoes of words never said, each track traces the soft ache of connection—how it forms, how it frays, and how it somehow endures. These aren’t grand declarations. They’re confessions left on voice memos. Glances held too long. Goodbyes that felt like maybe.

With textures ranging from ambient folk to cinematic indie, Stayed drifts through longing, memory, and stillness. Some songs ask to be heard in headphones at midnight. Others belong to empty roads or rooms that still hold someone’s scent.

This is not an album about falling in love.
It’s an album about the people who never left you—
even when they did.

Like I Belonged

Still Human is a post-digital folk album that explores the fragile line between connection and disconnection in an age ruled by screens, notifications, and silence. Created by R.U.D.Y., with hauntingly intimate vocal work by KennedY, the album weaves a modern tapestry of emotional isolation, digital intimacy, and unspoken longing. It’s a deeply human record built from synthetic spaces.

Through stripped-down piano and acoustic arrangements, the album tells a nonlinear story of two people navigating love, loss, and loneliness across the glitchy terrain of virtual life. The songs don’t shout, they ache quietly. Each track is a snapshot of a private moment most wouldn’t share aloud: messages unsent, tears shed after a “seen” message, love kept alive by memory alone.

Rather than fight against the digital world, Still Human embraces it as the setting for a more complex truth: that our feelings remain real, even when our interactions are pixel-thin. It’s a love letter to the ones who never asked how you really were, and a reminder that behind every profile is a person who still feels everything.

App Says I'm Fine

Terms and Conditions

I Don't Want To Go Viral

Blue Light Communion

Even If I'm Not With You

No One Feels This

Call Me When You Aren't Fine

Before you press play, I need to tell you something.

This isn’t just music. It’s a quiet unraveling. It’s what it sounds like when a soul tries to keep breathing after losing the one it thought was home.

You’re about to hear love slip through someone’s fingers. Not in anger. In silence. In slow realizations. In the long ache that follows when you know they were it for you,  and then it was all gone.

These songs don’t ask for your attention. They wait. Gently. Until you’re ready to remember the things you promised yourself you wouldn’t feel again. They know the quiet corners where your heartbreak lives. They sit with you there.

If you’ve ever found the one, your person, and then watched them walk away with your whole future still attached to their name… this album will cut deep. It will remind you of what it means to love without guardrails. And to lose without closure.

There may be moments where the quiet gets so heavy you forget to breathe. But that’s how you know it’s real.

So take a breath. Let it come for you.

And when it’s done, if you feel hollow or wrecked or cracked wide open, that’s how you’ll know it worked.
You remembered.
You felt it all.
And that means your heart still works.
That means you’re still human.

Have you ever lost the person your soul wasn’t ready to let go of?

all of you

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.