Another Woman: A Song Born in Thirty Minutes

I found out he'd found someone else. When I finally sat down to write about it, the song took thirty minutes.

I don't know how else to explain it. Another Woman arrived almost fully formed, the way things only do when something cracks open and everything that's been sitting beneath the surface finally has somewhere to go. I wasn't trying to write or sitting at my piano with a concept or a plan, I just needed to put it somewhere, and the song was what came out.

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It's a portrait of unrequited love – not the soft, nostalgic kind, but the kind that pulls you under. The kind you keep returning to even when you know better. The lyrics don't reach for resolution. There's no making peace with it, no closing the door. Just the raw, unfiltered reality of loving someone who has chosen someone else.

Sonically, it's dark and guitar-driven, with violins woven throughout – quietly at first, present but restrained, holding tension rather than releasing it. The verses are softer, more internal. The choruses erupt. And then there's the outro.

The outro is the moment the song has been building towards the whole time. It's grand and soaring – explosive drums, electric guitars, violins breaking completely open. And underneath all of it, me, screaming. During recording, we ran it through a guitar distortion filter in real time, then layered more in post. The result is deliberately ambiguous – it catches you off guard, this sound that could be a guitar solo but isn't. And I think that ambiguity says something about the song as a whole: the line between what's controlled and what's completely falling apart isn't always clear.

I could listen to that outro on repeat. It's rock, it's mesmerising, it's the kind of thing that makes you feel something you don't quite have words for. Which is, I suppose, what the whole song is trying to do.

Another Woman is out everywhere.

Liya Shapiro x