Welcome to the Simulation: You Are Now the Band’s Unpaid Therapist

So the album dropped. Twelve tracks. Forty-two minutes. You’ve already cried, made six TikToks, screen-recorded your favorite bridge, and tweeted, “They really wrote this for ME.”

And somewhere in a basement lit only by a lava lamp and brand sponcon regret, the artist sits — haunted by the ghost of your expectations.
Because you think you were involved.

This isn’t fandom anymore. This is a shared delusion where everyone thinks they’re part of the band but nobody’s carrying gear or paying for therapy. Welcome to the parasocial Hunger Games, where every artist owes you vulnerability, content, and emotional closure in under 60 seconds — or else you’ll stitch them and say you’re disappointed.

We Used to Have Boundaries. Then Came the “Close Friends” Story.

Once upon a time, a rock star was a mythical creature. You didn’t know their skincare routine. You didn’t know their childhood trauma. You knew the music. And if they had a breakdown, it was in Rolling Stone, not on a livestream while someone spammed the chat with “drop the album pls.”

Now? You’ve seen the inside of their fridge. You know what books are on their nightstand. You saw them cry in the studio and decided they were your twin flame.

Every Instagram Q&A, every “Just checking in with my followers” post, every blurry selfie captioned “lol sad again” is a rope made of intimacy and marketing, and you are happily wrapping it around your own neck.

“This Album Betrayed Me Personally” — A Four-Part Thread

Here’s the thing: you’re not in the band. You didn’t write that song. You didn’t co-produce track 7. You weren’t in the room when they cut the verse you swore was about your last situationship.

And yet —

“She used to make art for us... I don’t know who this album is for anymore.”
“Ever since she got signed it’s just industry plant garbage.”
“They’re not even sad anymore. I miss the pain.”

Congratulations! You’ve gone full parasocial ex, mad that your favorite sadboi had the audacity to heal. Imagine booing someone at a show for getting mentally stable. That’s where we are.

Every Fanbase Is a Cult With a Canva Account

We’re not even talking about regular stanning anymore. We’re talking project management-level obsession. Fandoms with spreadsheets. Timelines. Investigative threads with red string-level analysis:

“If you reverse the outro of track 12 and slow it down, you can hear her whispering her ex’s initials.”

Y’all need a nap. And maybe a restraining order.

We’ve created a culture where art must be endlessly explained, justified, and updated in real time. If you’re not doing behind-the-scenes vlogs, lyric breakdowns, sad reels, and voice note demos from 2AM — the fans feel ghosted. They want full transparency, but only the parts that validate their projection.

The Illusion of Intimacy Is Profitable. And Damaging.

Let’s be honest: this isn’t entirely your fault. The industry loves parasociality. It’s free marketing dressed up as community. The illusion that your favorite artist sees you is what sells vinyl, gets streams, and inflates follower counts.

But behind that phone screen? There’s a real person who did not consent to being your daily emotional buffet.

And it’s making them lose their minds.
Artists are logging off mid-tour. Scrubbing their comments. Going private. Crying in green rooms because they dropped one midtempo track and now 300 people are calling them a capitalist sellout.

They didn’t sign up for your expectations. They signed up to make music — not perform mental illness for clout.

You’re Not the Muse. You’re the Problem.

So here’s the real talk: the artist doesn’t owe you closure. They don’t owe you access. And they sure as hell don’t owe you a sequel to the EP you cried to during quarantine while chain-smoking in your ex’s hoodie.

Sometimes, people make shit and move on.

And if that hurts your feelings, maybe go outside. Touch grass. Start a band. Write your own album. But stop acting like unfollowing someone because they didn’t write a third breakup track is activism.

You didn’t co-write the album.
You’re just chronically online.