GOOD ON PAPER

BPM: 100 Style: Cinematic Whisper-Pop, Orchestral Minimalism, Ethereal Dark Instruments: Sustained string drone, sub-bass, single piano chord progression, finger snaps, building to orchestral swell in final chorus Mood: Pristine surface / hollow interior, beautiful emptiness, achingly self-aware Vocal: Young adult female vocalist aged 20-23, controlled perfection in verses (mirroring the theme), slight crack in pre-chorus, raw in bridge Lyrics - [VERSE 1] [ String drone. Single piano chord. Controlled. ] The CV reads like someone I would envy if I met her — Dean's list, internship, a jawline that photographs on cue, The apartment's decorated from a Pinterest board called "healing" — And the therapy appointment in my calendar is the one thing that's true. I meal-prep on Sundays like an advertisement for functioning, Post the containers in a row — twelve hearts, two comments, three reposts, Nobody asks if I've eaten any of them by Wednesday — Nobody notices the takeaway containers hiding underneath the hosting. [PRE-CHORUS] [ Slight vocal crack. First honest moment. ] Everybody says "you have it all together" — And I smile like a window display That hasn't been changed in months Because the person responsible Stopped showing up. [CHORUS] [ Finger snaps. Controlled but something trembles underneath. ] Good on paper — the résumé is flawless and the lighting's always right, Good on paper — but the person living in it cries on Tuesday nights, Good on paper — I've been curating someone easier to praise, Good on paper — but the paper's getting thinner every day. [VERSE 2] My mother calls and asks "how's everything?" — I say "amazing," The word falls out of my mouth like an automated receipt, I haven't told her that the internship makes me feel like furniture — Or that the apartment echoes at a frequency I can't compete. The friends I brunch with every fortnight think I'm thriving — Because I schedule vulnerability like a forty-five-minute slot, I reveal just enough to seem authentic but not alarming — A calculated dose of honesty — measured to the microdot. [CHORUS] [ Finger snaps. Controlled but something trembles underneath. ] Good on paper — the résumé is flawless and the lighting's always right, Good on paper — but the person living in it cries on Tuesday nights, Good on paper — I've been curating someone easier to praise, Good on paper — but the paper's getting thinner every day. [BRIDGE] [ Strings drop out. Piano alone. Raw for the first time. ] The scariest part isn't the pretending. It's how good I've become at it. I can cry in the bathroom at 7:14 And be presenting a quarterly update at 7:30 With mascara so precise It looks like evidence of stability Rather than the camouflage of someone Who hasn't slept through a full night Since the month they started calling her "the one who has it together." I don't want to have it together. I want to be allowed to have it scattered. On the floor. In pieces. Unarranged. And still be someone worth knowing. [CHORUS] [ Finger snaps. Controlled but something trembles underneath. ] Good on paper — the résumé is flawless and the lighting's always right, Good on paper — but the person living in it cries on Tuesday nights, Good on paper — I've been curating someone easier to praise, Good on paper — but the paper's getting thinner every day. [FINAL CHORUS] [ Orchestral swell. For the first time — full sound. Earned. ] Good on paper — I'm crumpling the version that everyone applauds, Good on paper — the real me has wrinkles and I'm learning those aren't flaws, Good on paper — but paper doesn't breathe and I am ready to, Good on paper — I'd rather be good in person — even if the person isn't new. [OUTRO] [ String drone returns. Then fades. Then whispered: ] Good on paper. Terrible in private. Working on reversing the ratio.