The Things Calyn Chose Not to Say: A Slow Burn of Emotion on ‘Better Left Unsaid’
There’s a moment on Calyn ’s Better Left Unsaid—a gasp between lyrics, a hesitation before the next beat—that tells you everything you need to know about this EP. It’s not the kind of project that chases radio play or hooks for the algorithm. Instead, it lingers in quiet grief, the kind that doesn’t scream but hums under your skin for days. It’s a breakup record, yes, but more than that, it’s an autopsy of emotional silence, dissected with grace and restraint.
The opener, “Eleven 03,“ lands like a journal entry left open on a stranger’s table. It’s sparse, vulnerable, and unsettling in its honesty. Calyn isn’t trying to be clever here—she’s exhaling pain, trying to name the unnamed disconnect in a relationship that’s lost all balance. That the song is catchy is almost incidental; what makes it hit is the intimacy. The track feels like it wasn’t written for an audience but shared out of necessity, like telling a secret you’ve kept for too long.
That quiet sense of unraveling continues with “What If?“—the EP’s most internally chaotic moment. There’s no big chorus or dramatic reveal. Instead, it dwells in indecision, playing tug-of-war with memories and imagined scenarios. It’s a deeply Gen Z kind of heartbreak—overthinking everything, replaying texts in your head, mourning the possibility of something that never quite was.
“Sliding Thru The City“ shifts gears just slightly, offering a glimpse into Calyn’s earlier headspace—a flashback to the initial thrill and confusion of love before it curdled. It’s smoother, more produced, and carries the fingerprints of collaboration, especially with her sister Dyli. It doesn’t quite aim for emotional gut punches like the rest of the EP, but its placement gives us a panoramic view of where things started.
Then there’s “Only Me Interlude,” which might be the most radical thing on the record. No polish. No production gloss. Just Calyn, raw and unfiltered. It’s not a typical interlude—it’s a confession booth. Listening to it feels voyeuristic, like stumbling onto a voice memo you weren’t meant to hear. And yet, it anchors the record’s emotional arc. Without it, the EP would feel incomplete.
She closes with “make u miss me,” and it’s a reclamation of power, but not in the chest-thumping way we’ve come to expect from pop empowerment anthems. This one’s laced with grief, like someone learning how to smile again without forcing it. There’s maturity here, a final breath before the album’s emotional curtain drops. It’s not triumphant—it’s real.
