Gracie Abrams

I remember the first time I heard Gracie Abrams live. The room was small, the kind of venue where the stage feels barely a step up from the floor, and the lights were soft like candlelight. She walked out in an oversized sweater, hair falling into her eyes, and smiled like she wasn’t sure we were all really there for her. The first notes she sang were so quiet that the crowd instinctively hushed, like we all knew these songs weren’t meant to be shouted over. Her voice carried that mix of ache and warmth that makes you feel like she’s reading from a diary she hasn’t let anyone else see. When she sang “Feels Like”, it felt like every heart in the room leaned forward at the same time. I wasn’t just hearing the music—I was in it, suspended in that bittersweet space between missing someone and moving on. After the show, I walked out into the cool night air with my chest still buzzing. It wasn’t a loud, stadium-sized memory. It was small, intimate—like the way a Polaroid feels in your hand. But it stayed with me, the way her voice did.