I listened to Through the Night by IU again today. It’s a soft, melancholic lullaby released in 2017—tender and gentle, almost like a whisper in the dark. A love letter written with no guarantee it'll ever be read. It speaks of longing, quiet affection, and the kind of love that stays even when nothing is said aloud.
And I’ve been listening to that same song for five years.
What strikes me is how, each time I hear it, the meaning reshapes itself depending on where I am in life.
There was a season where the lyrics mirrored my heartache so precisely, it felt like the song was written just for me. I’d close my eyes and let myself get lost in the melancholy. It was comforting, in a strange way—like someone else knew the depths I couldn’t put into words.
Then came a time when the song reminded me of someone. Of what I hoped for. Of what I lost. I cried. I smiled. I paused. I healed.
And today, I heard it with different ears.
No ache. No longing. Just gratitude.
It doesn’t hit like it used to—but that doesn’t mean it lost its power. If anything, it’s gained more. Because now, it carries layers. It holds proof of the emotions I’ve outgrown, the moments I’ve survived, and the memories I’ve learned to treasure rather than mourn.
It amazes me how one song can walk with you through so many chapters.
Through the Night didn’t change.
I did.
And somehow, that’s the most beautiful part of all.
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