[Intro] [distorted electric guitar palm-muted eighth notes, bass enters, driving drums] [Verse 1] [guitars muted] She wears the red scarf like a second skin, black wavy hair cut close around her face. The glasses catch the light, the freckles stay, a butterfly that chose a shoulder blade. Multiple earrings, casual layers built, hazel eyes that hold a room and shift. She dresses like the city is a stage and she's already packed and ready to lift. [guitars switch to open power chords, crash cymbals] [Verse 2] [guitars muted] She started out in Jersey, seven years, then London took her childhood and her ear. UCLA for systems, Berkeley next, the HP server lines were how she got here. She built the confidence on hold-queue calls, on engineers who didn't want to share. The consultancy came later, clean and easy — but the grounding underneath it wasn't spare. [Pre-Chorus] [Intimate] She speaks in rounded vowels, London-born, but every word she chooses lands as West. The accent is the tell of two places held — she sounds like distance, dressed in Sunday best. [Chorus] [guitars switch to open power chords, crash cymbals] Every city gets the real one. Barcelona, cold November. London when the cycles overlap. None of them gets to remember. Jersey suburbs keep her family tree, Metro clubs where strobe lights blind the eye, Fiona dances wild and breaks out free, A shifting ghost before she says goodbye. [Verse 3] [guitars muted] New York metro when the grandparents called, the subway smell, the diner, the return. London for the grey and the familiar, the city that first taught her not to yearn. Barcelona holds the operational base, the apartment that she actually keeps. But the rotation pulls her every few months — she's most herself when nobody else sleeps. [Pre-Chorus] [Intimate] And every city that she cycles through receives the undivided, present her. She doesn't half-arrive or half-unpack — each landing is as real as the last were. [Chorus] [guitars switch to open power chords, crash cymbals] Every city gets the real one. Barcelona, cold November. London when the cycles overlap. None of them gets to remember. Jersey suburbs keep her family tree, Metro clubs where strobe lights blind the eye, Fiona dances wild and breaks out free, A shifting ghost before she says goodbye. [Bridge] [only bass beats] [Convcersational] The butterfly on her shoulder wasn't chosen lightly. She knows what it means to land and lift and land again. Affection and desire run on separate tracks for her — she doesn't confuse the warmth of a city with wanting to stay forever. She's selective. She means it every single time. The detachment isn't damage. It's the shape of how she's built. [Verse 4] [guitars muted] A support ticket opened, stayed too long, a voice she kept returning calls to hear. Two years of text before they shared a room — she knew his mind before his face was clear. His orbit runs through every city she does, the same coordinates, a different gate. She found that some connections hold at distance — the ones worth keeping, those can navigate. [Pre-Chorus] [Intimate] She didn't follow anyone's itinerary, the overlap was written in the work. But somewhere in the routing she found company that didn't ask her pattern to convert. [Chorus] [guitars switch to open power chords, crash cymbals] Every city gets the real one. Barcelona, cold November. London when the cycles overlap. None of them gets to remember. Jersey suburbs keep her family tree, Metro clubs where strobe lights blind the eye, Fiona dances wild and breaks out free, A shifting ghost before she says goodbye. [Outro] [only electronic instruments] The red scarf in a different timezone, the glasses on a new hotel desk. The butterfly still on her shoulder — she never needed to be anywhere next. [Fade]
