Hihi! Ooooh okay, you just unlocked a very specific flavour of yearning—the kind that tastes like late-night overthinking, texts you never sent, and people who live rent-free in your head long after they’ve exited the group chat of your life. “Lookalike” by Conan Gray and “Like Him” by Tyler, the Creator aren’t just songs. Nah. These are confessions etched into melody, diary pages with a beat, therapy sessions hidden behind harmonies. They don’t just expressheartbreak—they romanticise it, drag it out, wrap it in velvet and leave it on the doorstep of your emotions with a sticky note that reads: “Still thinking of you.”
Both tracks orbit around the same black hole: unrequited love. That beautiful, gut-wrenching phenomenon where your heart is a little too loud and their feelings are a little too quiet. But the way these two artists tackle it? Very different energies, same emotional damage. Conan’s “Lookalike” is the soft, devastating whisper of someone still haunted by a love long gone. He walks through life tracing the ghost of an ex-lover’s silhouette in strangers, clinging to memory like it’s oxygen. It’s delicate, it’s dramatic, it’s so tragically pretty.
On the flip side, Tyler’s “Like Him” hits you with that cool-kid-in-crisis energy. It’s smooth, jazzy, and laced with emotional irony. Tyler’s not chasing a past lover—he’s watching someone he wants love someone else, and the spiral begins. He doesn’t just miss out on love; he questions his own worth, wondering why he isn’t the one. It’s not just heartbreak, it’s identity-crisis heartbreak. Existential jazz hands, if you will.
Both artists deal with the ache of being second best—of not being enough in someone else’s story. But where Conan looks for his past in every person he meets, Tyler looks at the present and asks, “Why not me?” Conan romanticizes the idea of someone to the point of delusion. Tyler internalizes rejection until it morphs into envy and self-doubt. Both are stuck in loops: one in memory, the other in comparison.
And that’s where the brilliance lies. These aren’t just sad songs; they’re mirrors. Whether you’re the type to replay every detail of an old relationship like a movie you can’t stop watching, or you’re the one sizing yourself up against the guy your crush posts on her story, these tracks get it. They see you. They write your unsent drafts and caption your emotional breakdowns.
So let’s dissect these heartbreak anthems like the overthinking pros we are—exploring where their stories overlap, where they take different emotional detours, and why both hit you right in the feels despite sounding worlds apart. Whether you’re crying in the club or in your room under a blanket of unsaid things, this comparison is for you.
Let’s get into the emotional mess. Bring tissues. Or tequila. Your call.
Crippling Obsession with “The One That Got Away”
Conan Gray – “Lookalike”
This song isn’t just a soft ballad—it’s a quiet implosion, a gentle unraveling masked by delicate piano and Conan’s fragile vocals. It’s the sound of someone who pretends they’ve moved on, smiles through conversations, flirts with strangers—but deep down, they’re still chained to the ghost of someone they once loved.
From the first verse, Conan sets the tone: he’s haunted, not by memories, but by illusions. People pass by, strangers become mirrors, and every new face becomes a potential reincarnation of them. This isn’t just romantic nostalgia—it’s a psychological loop of emotional comparison. He’s looking for the ex in every new partner. It’s not love; it’s obsession disguised as sentimentality. A rose-tinted refusal to let go.
The specificity here is devastating. It’s not just resemblance—it’s mimicry. Walked like you do. That level of detail hints that he’s not just remembering; he’s searching. He’s scanning the world for any trace of a past that still owns him.
But why? Why do we look for people in other people? The answer is simple and brutal: because moving on means admitting that what we had wasn’t forever. That the person we made a home out of is now just an address we can’t return to. Conan’s protagonist would rather live in that illusion—comparing everyone to someone they can never have again—than face that emotional eviction.
And that’s what makes “Lookalike” so painfully real: it’s not about closure. It’s about choosing fantasy over finality. He doesn’t want a new love—he wants the same love, in a different body.
Tyler, the Creator – “Like Him”
Now Tyler… Tyler hits different. “Like Him” is not about chasing after an ex. It’s about never even getting the chance to begin. It’s not about what was lost—it’s about what was never his to begin with.
There’s this gut-punch vulnerability buried inside the cool, jazzy production. While the beat floats effortlessly, Tyler’s lyrics sink like stones. The object of his affection loves someone else—and Tyler’s internal monologue goes from admiration to annihilation real fast. He doesn’t just envy the other guy—he wants to become him. To embody whatever it is that made them lovable. Because clearly, he isn’t it.
When I listened to Chromakopia, I didn’t know what to expect. I can’t help but feel like I’m opening up Tyler’s diary and finding random thoughts, scattered ideas and raw emotion written everywhere. Its messy, erratic nature compelled me to replay the album over and over again.
Andini, Medium.com
Oof. That’s not just jealousy, that’s identity erosion. That’s looking in the mirror and not recognizing yourself anymore because you’ve started wondering if being you is the problem. It’s the emotional rot of comparison, of constantly measuring your worth against someone else’s reflection in your lover’s eyes.
And what’s worse? Tyler never even had this person. So there’s no breakup to mourn, no closure to process. Just the aching ambiguity of “what if.” Just this endless scroll through someone else’s highlight reel, wondering where you fell short in a game you never got to play.
Where Conan’s sadness is rooted in the past, Tyler’s is firmly fixed in the present—raw, immediate, and self-consuming.
Shared Thread: Paralysed by Love That Never Fully Belonged to You
Here’s the kicker: neither Conan nor Tyler ever really had the people they’re singing about. Or if they did, it was fleeting, incomplete, or never reciprocated in full. And that’s the emotional black hole both songs spiral into—loving someone who isn’t really yours, not anymore, not ever.
But the way each artist processes that love? Polar opposites.
- Conan Gray sits in the memory. He clutches it like a photograph that’s faded at the edges but still smells like nostalgia. He isn’t trying to become someone else—he’s trying to recreate a love that’s already gone. His obsession is backward-facing, always hunting for what once was, replaying the golden age on a mental loop.
- Tyler, the Creator stares straight ahead. He’s watching his crush actively choose someone else, and he’s left standing on the sidelines wondering what he’s missing. His obsession is forward-facing, consumed by a desire to become what he thinks they want. He isn’t trying to recreate love—he’s trying to earn it by shapeshifting his identity.
Both are stuck. Conan is stuck in idealization; Tyler is stuck in insecurity. Conan is chasing ghosts; Tyler is chasing validation. But both are running in emotional circles that only end where they began: empty-handed.
Two Flavours of the Same Ache
At their core, “Lookalike” and “Like Him” are soul siblings. They both explore the obsessive aftermath of a one-sided love, whether that love was ever real or just imagined. One wraps its sadness in soft, melancholic piano chords. The other buries it under layers of jazzy bravado and poetic restraint. But both leave you aching.
So if you’ve ever loved someone who didn’t love you back the way you needed—these songs aren’t just soundtracks. They’re survival guides. They whisper, you’re not the only one. They say, your pain is real. And maybe, just maybe, they help you let go—or at least, hold on with less desperation.
Sad Boi Energy vs Cool-Kid Melancholy
Conan Gray – Sad Boi Energy
Let’s get something straight: “Lookalike” doesn’t just play—it lingers. It doesn’t demand your attention; it quietly consumes you. It’s the song that finds you alone in your room at 2 AM, illuminated by fairy lights and the glow of your overthinking brain, and says, “Hey bestie, let’s spiral.”
Musically, it’s a stripped-down, piano-led emotional purge. There’s something so disarmingly quiet about the production that it almost tricks you into thinking the song is gentle. But don’t be fooled. This is emotional warfare in ballad form. Every note Conan sings feels like it’s laced with old perfume and text message drafts that were never sent.
It’s giving:
- Standing in the rain without an umbrella
- Scrolling through old photos, zooming in on hands that once held yours
- “They moved on, but I romanticise it anyway” core
The vibe here is intimate—almost voyeuristic. You’re not just hearing Conan’s heartbreak; you’re inside it. The minimal instrumentation allows his vocals and lyrics to carry the full weight, which makes every word hit like a late-night text you wish you hadn’t sent. It’s the sonic equivalent of crying in your childhood bedroom while romanticising a love that never fully bloomed.
This is sad boi energy distilled to its purest form. No distractions. Just feelings—raw, unfiltered, and softly devastating.
Tyler, the Creator – Cool-Kid Melancholy
Now enter: Tyler. Different lane, same highway of heartbreak.
“Like Him” doesn’t knock on your door—we’re talking Tyler, so it crashes through the window on a jazz piano. It’s dreamy, groovy, and coated in this effortless cool that makes the sadness go down smoother—but still burns on the way out.
The production here is textbook Tyler: lush, layered, and off-kilter in all the best ways. There’s a sonic floatiness that feels like daydreaming underwater—pretty, surreal, a little detached. But under that smooth instrumental? A lyrical spiral. A meltdown in disguise.
The way Tyler delivers this line is deceptively chill. He says it like he’s just musing. But emotionally? It’s a sucker punch to the gut. He’s unraveling—comparing, doubting, longing—but it’s all done behind this silky veneer of jazz chords and hazy synths. Where Conan wallows in heartbreak, Tyler tries to vibe through it. It’s heartbreak with sunglasses on.
It’s giving:
- Smoking on a rooftop while your crush posts their new boyfriend on IG
- “I’m fine” but said with a voice crack
- Disassociation, but make it fashion
There’s also this tension in Tyler’s delivery—he’s cool, but barely holding it together. You get the sense that if you scratched the surface of that groove, you’d find a boy crumbling beneath the beat. It’s what makes his melancholy feel realer somehow—because it’s hidden. Because it’s ashamed. Because it’s performed with this mask of “I’m over it” when he’s absolutely not.
This isn’t the sad boi curled up in bed—this is the sad boi dancing alone in a room full of people, laughing too loudly, pouring another drink to drown the ache.
Shared DNA: Drenched in Delusion, Dipped in Aesthetic
Okay, so let’s talk about the mutual vibe overlap. Because yes, Conan and Tyler are styling their sadness differently, but under the sonic trench coats and jazzy facades, they’re both serving the same emotional main course:
Unreciprocated love, seasoned with obsession, plated on insecurity.
The difference is in the presentation. Conan’s sadness is unapologetically exposed. His vocals tremble, the piano cries with him, and he doesn’t try to hide how much it hurts. He wants you to feel it all.
Tyler, on the other hand, wants to feel less. So he dresses his pain up in groove, in rhythm, in classic Tyler production magic. But the more polished the vibe, the sharper the contrast when the lyrics punch through.
One is heartbreak poetry in lowercase cursive.
The other is heartbreak poetry in bold italics with a sax solo.
Still, both are rooted in this Gen Z-flavored cocktail of emotional vulnerability meets aesthetic control. We’re not just crying—we’re curating the playlist that makes us cry harder. And both artists lean hard into that culture of feeling everything loudly but presenting it softly.
Tyler vs. Conan: How the Vibe Informs the Pain
Let’s zoom out.
- Conan Gray’s sadboi aesthetic is like a coming-of-age movie where the protagonist stares longingly out the window, rain cascading down the glass, while orchestral swells mimic the feeling of being forgotten.
- Tyler’s heartbreak cinematic is more like an A24 film—moody, stylized, full of longing glances and unresolved conversations that simmer under dreamy lighting and dissonant chords.
So while both are emotionally wrecked, Conan is letting the sadness drown him because he wants to remember.
Tyler is keeping it cool because he doesn’t want to admit how bad it hurts.
That’s the vibe twist: Conan romanticises the past. Tyler compartmentalises the present. One uses sadness to stay close to what they lost. The other uses coolness to distance themselves from what they’ll never have.
Lookalike and Like Him: I Think He’s in Love With My Shadow
You ever look at someone your ex is now dating and just go—“Wait. Is that me in a different font?” These songs hit different for me because someone I used to know probably cheated on me with another version of me, is dating another version of me, was wanting to date another version of me—HOW DOES ONE FIND SO MANY PEOPLE THAT LOOK LIKE ME?
That’s the entire unsettling heartbeat of both “Lookalike” and “Like Him.” Conan Gray sets the tone with his breathy, delicate delivery, tiptoeing through memories like he’s afraid to wake the ghost of someone he used to love. His words are tender, but they cut deep. Every new person he sees has your smile, your laugh, your cadence. It’s like the world is glitching, and Conan is cursed to watch a love he lost replay on loop—but never with him in the frame.
But when you look in his eyes
Conan Gray, Lookalike (2018)
Do you think of mine?
And when you look at that smile
Do I cross your mind?
I know in your head
You see me instead
‘Cause he looks a lot like I did back then
Baby don’t lie
He’s just a lookalike.
He’s not falling in love again—he’s chasing after shadows. Haunted by similarities. Trapped in emotional déjà vu.
Then we’ve got Tyler, who enters the chat not with a whimper, but with a jazz-slicked spiral of insecurity. In “Like Him,”he’s watching from the sidelines while the object of his affection chooses someone else. But it’s not just someone—it’s someone who reflects all the things Tyler wishes he could be. That envy festers and boils over into a lowkey identity crisis. Because if they love someone so much like you… why didn’t they love you?
she said that i make expressions like him
Tyler, the Creator, Like Him (2024)
my legs to my shoulders and my chin like him
my waist and my posture like him
mama i’m chasing a ghost, i don’t know who he is.
The overlap here is chilling. Conan is watching his ex recreate their relationship with clones. Tyler is watching someone he loves choose a version of him with better specs. And both are left wondering—was I not good enough, or was I just the rough draft?
POV: He didn’t want you, he wanted the idea of you
This right here is the core wound. These songs aren’t about heartbreak, per se—they’re about the ache of being misunderstood while being adored.
Conan’s entire vibe in “Lookalike” feels like he’s mourning not just a relationship, but the fantasy of it. The version of love he was sold. The idealized person he was building in his mind. It’s not that he wants his ex back—he wants the ideaof them. The projection. The dream.
Even as he recognizes the difference, he’s clinging to the similarities. That’s what projection does: it makes you squint at someone until they resemble the person you refuse to let go of.
Tyler, though? Tyler’s on the receiving end. He’s becoming the projection. Almost enough. Almost chosen. And that realization is devastating. It’s one thing to be unloved—it’s another to realize you were a placeholder for someone else’s fantasy. He’s analyzing what makes this other guy more appealing. What version of himself he’d have to become in order to finally be loved back.
There’s something brutally universal in that. The feeling of contorting yourself into someone’s dream version of you—and still falling short. The heartbreak in these songs comes not just from the loss of love, but from the distortion of it. It wasn’t real. Or maybe it was, but only for a version of you that never actually existed.
Accidentally stalking his new girl on Instagram for the 8th time this week
This is where the modern pain kicks in. You’re over them—but also, you’ve memorized their new girl’s vacation pics. You’re healing—but also, you “accidentally” clicked on a tagged photo from weeks ago. Whoops.
There’s such a distinct Gen Z flavour to this flavour of pain. We don’t just miss people—we stalk the lives they’ve built without us. We don’t let go—we refresh their stories until our phones judge us with that “You’re all caught up” notification.
Both songs perfectly capture that intrusive thought spiral. It’s not about wanting them back. It’s about not knowing how to let go when every corner of the world—and your algorithm—reminds you of them.
So he has a type… and it’s me?
You know what’s more confusing than being dumped? Realising you’re still the blueprint.
Conan’s entire song is drenched in that discomfort. This isn’t a love story anymore—it’s a horror film where every character looks like him. It’s flattering until it’s not. Until you realize the person didn’t want you, they just wanted your parts. Your softness. Your laugh. Your damage. Repackaged in someone more convenient. Someone less… you.
Tyler turns this concept into a battlefield. He’s not just realizing he’s the prototype—he’s competing with the polished model. His insecurity bleeds through every line. The whole track feels like he’s talking to a mirror he doesn’t recognize. What makes that guy more lovable? What makes him worthy?
It’s the quiet horror of knowing your essence is desirable—but your wholeness wasn’t.
What ties “Lookalike” and “Like Him” together isn’t just sadness—it’s identity erosion. Both artists are grappling with the terrifying idea that their presence was never enough, and their absence is somehow being filled by someone eerily similar.
They’re not singing about love lost. They’re singing about selfhood stolen.
These aren’t just breakup songs. They’re philosophical breakdowns, built on obsession and ego and projection and insecurity. They’re the 3 AM conversations you have with yourself in the bathroom mirror. The playlist you build to feel understood when your journal just isn’t hitting hard enough.
And most of all? They’re deeply, universally relatable. Because at some point, we’ve all felt the ache of seeing ourselves reflected in the wrong person’s arms.
So next time you find yourself spiraling down an ex’s tagged photos or catching feelings for someone who’s suspiciously your doppelgänger—just remember: you’re not alone. You’re in the company of Conan Gray, Tyler the Creator, and every sad soul who’s ever asked—
Was I ever really loved, or just almost enough?
I’ve moved on, I’m just… chronically curious and mildly unstable
This one is the soft-launch of emotional chaos. The kind of heartbreak that shows up as a passive scroll, a casual glance at who they’re following now, the “no big deal” check-in that somehow turns into a 45-minute deep dive into the tagged photos of a girl named Emily who now owns your hoodie-by-proxy.
Conan Gray’s “Lookalike” is the soundtrack to this exact form of spiraling. The lyrics drip with melancholy, but there’s no dramatic sobbing or public breakdowns—this is the kind of heartbreak that rots quietly. The whole production of the song is minimal: soft piano chords, a delicate falsetto, a lullaby tone that makes the emotional weight hit harder, not softer. It’s like whispering your trauma into a void and hoping no one notices how much you still care.
This isn’t just about missing someone. It’s about seeing them everywhere, even when they’re gone. Conan doesn’t say, “I want you back.” He says, “I keep finding ghosts of you, and I’m tired.” It’s an obsession disguised as passivity, like telling yourself you’re over them while checking if their new girl also wears Doc Martens and still eats the crusts of her sandwiches.
It’s yearning—but sanitized. It’s the kind of sadness that you joke about to your friends in a “haha I’m crazy” tone, but you’re dead serious. It’s not dramatic because it doesn’t need to be. The tragedy is in the stillness. The quiet surrender. The realization that you’re no longer actively chasing them, but you still carry them like a watermark across every new love.
Tyler the Creator’s “Like Him” comes from a different sonic universe—jazzy, dreamy, layered with quirky instrumentals and signature Tyler strangeness—but it taps into the same frequency. That moment of twisted peace where you say you’re okay, but your art tells on you. Tyler, like Conan, is not directly begging for someone to come back. He’s lurking in the emotional aftermath, watching the person he once wanted be with someone else, and trying to pretend it doesn’t sting.
See, that’s the kicker. The spiral isn’t loud. It’s internal. It’s not, “I love you, come back!” It’s, “Why can’t I stop thinking about someone I’m supposed to be over?” It’s, “Why does her laugh sound like mine? Why does she wear her eyeliner the same way I taught you to love on me?” It’s self-doubt soaked in aesthetic detachment.
This type of post-breakup obsession is deceptively chill. No screaming into the abyss. No drunk texting at 2AM. Just soft, looping thoughts and the occasional scroll through their new girlfriend’s Instagram story while telling yourself it’s not that deep.
But it is that deep. And that’s what makes this flavor of heartbreak so potent. It’s not the grand finale—it’s the after-credits scene. The haunting. The residual ache. You’ve “moved on,” but your heart is doing recon missions behind your back.
It’s kind of funny, kind of tragic, deeply relatable.
The girl he’s with now might never know she’s being watched through this lens. But you do. And Conan—and Tyler—have made music that puts that weird, twisted post-breakup limbo into perfect harmony. They’ve written the anthem for everyone who’s ever said, “I’m fine,” while quietly constructing a personality profile for someone they only know through tagged posts and blurry mirror selfies.
He couldn’t commit, so now I romanticise the rejection
We’ve all been there: the situationship that never got a proper name, the flirtation that flirted with forever but ghosted before it could even define itself. This is the land of emotional purgatory, and both Conan Gray and Tyler, the Creatorhave built houses here—tiny, heartbreak Airbnb’s where they rent space in the listener’s soul.
Let’s start with Conan.
In “Lookalike,” Conan isn’t mourning the death of a relationship—he’s mourning the idea of one. There’s no clear breakup, no big betrayal, just a lingering attachment to someone who probably never gave him the closure he deserved. The entire song is haunted by this spectral presence, an ex who lives on through doppelgängers. He doesn’t miss the person as they are now—he misses the version of them he constructed in his mind. The curated, rose-tinted, Pinterest board version of love.
Conan’s narrating a relationship that might not have been real. Or at least, not mutually real. He fell in love with a projection, a “you” that only existed in his daydreams and late-night replays. Now that the fantasy’s over, he clings to whatever pieces he can find in the people who follow. He’s not healing—he’s repackaging the pain. And, lowkey, he’s romanticizing being rejected. Because if he didn’t, he’d have to admit that none of it was real.
And that? That’s too devastating.
Now enter Tyler, the Creator.
Tyler’s “Like Him” is drenched in the same flavor of hurt, but his pain is louder, messier, more jagged. He’s not being subtle. He’s straight-up saying: “You didn’t choose me. And now I can’t stop wondering what I did wrong.” But what makes it worse is the self-awareness. He knows he’s idealizing the rejection. Knows he’s spiraling over someone who probably made their choice long ago. But knowing doesn’t stop the yearning.
Tyler is watching the love of his life choose someone else—and instead of accepting it, he builds an entire fantasy in his head where they only left because he wasn’t quite enough. That maybe, just maybe, if he’d changed his personality, worn different shoes, laughed at the right jokes, been more like him, things would’ve turned out differently.
That’s the heartbreak sweet spot: the moment you stop grieving the person and start grieving the person you could’ve been if they had just loved you a little more.
Both artists are trapped in this vicious cycle: the rejection is painful, yes, but it also becomes romantic. Like a sad little movie they replay in their heads, because it’s better than silence. Better than letting go. Better than admitting they were never really chosen to begin with.
This isn’t just emotional masochism—it’s a survival mechanism. Romanticizing rejection gives it meaning. It allows the pain to feel justified. Because if you can believe that the love was real—even if only for a second—then the loss isn’t pathetic. It’s poetic.
It’s why we write poems about people who never texted back. Why we remember eye contact like it was a proposal. Why we make playlists for people we only went on one date with.
It’s delusional, yes. But it’s also so human.
Conan does it with softness—like a bruise that still aches when you press it. Tyler does it with fire—like screaming at a closed door. But both are holding onto ghosts of affection, convinced that if they romanticize the rejection enough, it’ll hurt less.
Spoiler: it doesn’t. But it does make a damn good song.
I trained him. She benefits.
Oh no. Not this one. Not the heartbreak that hits like a betrayal and a cosmic joke. You did the emotional labor. You were the beta tester. The trial period. You sat there, holding his hand through growth spurts, therapy epiphanies, late-night panic attacks, and all his “I’m just not good at relationships” speeches—only to watch him turn around and become boyfriend-of-the-year… for someone else.
This is the type of heartbreak that doesn’t just ache—it burns. And both Conan Gray and Tyler, the Creator tiptoe around this exact inferno in Lookalike and Like Him, even if neither of them says it outright.
Let’s be real: Conan’s “Lookalike” isn’t just sad—it’s furious in a polite way. It’s the heartbreak of seeing someone new wear your ex’s hoodie the way you used to, while they now say “I love you” in ways they couldn’t for you. The rage is quiet, but oh-so-real. It’s not jealousy—it’s betrayal by evolution. Like, “Oh, so you could be emotionally available? Just not for me?”
The lyric seems sweet, symmetrical. But dig a little deeper, and it’s vengeful equilibrium. It’s Conan saying, “You replaced me? Bet. I’ll replace you too.” But it never hits the same, does it? Because you remember the version of him who couldn’t commit. Who wouldn’t communicate. Who made you question your sanity while you were trying to save his.
Then you see him do it all—perfectly—for her. Smiling in photos. Buying flowers. Posting anniversary captions like he wasn’t once “bad at labels.”
And Conan? He’s not even mad that she’s happy. He’s mad that it wasn’t with him. That he did the work and someone else gets the reward.
Now cue Tyler.
Tyler’s voice in “Like Him” isn’t just insecure—it’s indignant. This man is watching someone be loved better by the same person who made him feel disposable. And while Tyler doesn’t say, “I built him,” the resentment is dripping through every line.
Because him—the new guy—is confident, open, probably emotionally competent. And Tyler’s left wondering why he had to break into pieces so someone else could be whole.
Here’s the raw truth: this kind of heartbreak feels like theft. Like you spent all this time growing a houseplant—watering it, giving it sunlight, talking to it like a crazy person—only for your ex to hand it off to someone else when it finally blooms. You built the blueprint. You created the man who now takes her on Sunday morning coffee dates and listens to her without getting defensive.
And you don’t want him back. You just want credit.
But no one’s handing out trophies for “Best Emotional Support Partner Who Was There While He Had a Breakdown in a Taco Bell Parking Lot.”
So what do you do? You write songs like Lookalike and Like Him. You scream into art. You turn your pain into poetry. Because maybe, just maybe, if enough people hear it, someone will finally get it—that grief isn’t just about losing a person. It’s about losing the version of them you helped shape, only to watch them offer that upgraded self to someone else.
And here’s the worst part: even the new girl doesn’t know. She thinks she’s getting the real him. She’s getting the finished product, unaware of the heartbreak that sculpted him. You, the sculptor, the behind-the-scenes hero, get zero screen time.
But in these songs, you finally get your monologue.
So rage on. Light the candle. Burn the love letter. And stream these tracks like your ex’s growth is your personal villain origin story. Because if you’re gonna be the girl who trained him, at least you get the soundtrack.
He doesn’t love her either, he’s just trying to forget me louder
This one is for the delulu girlies, the psychic exes, the ones who look at their ex’s new relationship and go, “Oh babe, that’s not love. That’s an exorcism.”
We’re talking about performative moving-on. The kind where your ex starts posting couple pics 0.3 seconds after things end, and you just know—deep in your soul, in your bones, in your highly intuitive group chat—that it’s not about her. It’s about you. It’s always been about you.
Tyler, the Creator takes this and spins it into a jazzy fever dream. His voice isn’t confident—it’s cracking. Like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else.
The way he fixates on the other guy? It’s almost comical, but heartbreaking. Like Tyler isn’t even mad that his person moved on. He’s mad that the new guy gets to play pretend like he’s the answer. The solution. The better version.
But Tyler sees through it. He knows what’s going on. The new relationship is just… louder. Flashier. More public. It’s a mask. His ex isn’t in love—he’s coping. And coping aggressively.
Because here’s the deal: when someone moves on before the dust even settles, it’s not always love. Sometimes, it’s war. It’s psychological warfare disguised as a soft launch.
Tyler gets it. That whole track is a man unraveling while trying to stay cool. Watching someone he still loves pretend that he never existed. Watching them post beach pics while he’s still replaying the conversations that led to silence. It’s all smoke and mirrors.
Now Conan doesn’t shout the way Tyler does. But in “Lookalike,” he definitely peeps the same game.
It’s subtle. Soft. But scathing. Conan isn’t just sad that he was replaced. He’s suspicious. He sees the new girl and knows she’s not being loved—she’s being used. She’s not his type—she’s his coping mechanism.
She’s Conan’s type.
That hits hard. Because you realize the worst part isn’t that he moved on—it’s that he didn’t even bother to find someone different. He’s still chasing the same high. Still stuck on the same blueprint. Still trying to erase you by layering on clones.
It’s like watching someone rewatch the same movie hoping the ending will change. (Spoiler: it won’t.)
And Conan? He’s just out here, watching the rerun with popcorn and heartbreak.
So here’s the thing—neither of these narrators are fooled. They see what we, the listeners, sometimes miss: that rebound relationships aren’t always about love. They’re about noise. Distraction. Control.
They’re about trying to forget louder than the heartbreak hurts.
And that’s the twisted compliment buried in all this: if someone has to date a version of you just to forget you, you were never forgettable in the first place.
You were the blueprint, babe.
So when your ex moves on overnight and you start spiraling, remember this: Tyler and Conan already did it first, and they turned the pain into a lyrical roast session. You’re not crazy—you’re clairvoyant. And just like them, you get to sit back, sip your tea, and know the truth:
They’re not in love. They’re in denial. And denial looks real cute with an Instagram filter. But it never lasts.
It’s giving: control-alt-delete on my entire personality
Okay. So you thought the heartbreak was the worst part? Wrong.
The real breakdown starts when you see your ex with someone eerily similar to you—same music taste, same eyeliner, probably uses the same shampoo—and suddenly you’re like:
Wait… was I ever unique? Or was I just a Pinterest board with Wi-Fi?
This subheading dives into that unholy union of ego death and digital stalking, where you’re not just heartbroken—you’re in an existential spiral.
Let’s start with Conan. In “Lookalike,” the title says it all. This man is straight-up haunted by being replicated. Replaced. Xeroxed and discarded. And the worst part? It’s not even the betrayal—it’s the disorientation.
This is identity theft, emotional edition. Conan’s watching someone else live his life, in his role, with his face. And he’s left sitting there like a ghost—still here, but barely visible. He’s questioning the core of who he is, because if you can be swapped out so easily… were you ever special?
It’s brutal, actually. Because this isn’t a diss track—it’s a psychological thriller. The villain isn’t the ex or the lookalike. It’s the creeping fear that your whole relationship was built on a type, not a person.
And now, your ex is just re-downloading you with bug fixes.
Conan’s not crying. He’s glitching.
Meanwhile, Tyler’s looking at the new dude and spiraling in a completely different flavor of crisis.
He’s not worried about being replaced with a copy of himself—he’s spiraling because the replacement is everything he’s not.
Oof. That’s not just jealousy—that’s a full identity collapse. Tyler’s not just sad he wasn’t chosen. He’s questioning whether the version of himself that loved so hard was ever good enough.
Suddenly, everything about him is under the microscope. His clothes. His voice. His energy.
And he doesn’t just want his person back—he wants to become the guy who did get chosen.
That’s the most unhinged heartbreak vibe of all: when you want to merge identities just to feel worthy again.
It’s Freaky Friday, but make it self-esteem breakdown.
This subheading isn’t just about loss. It’s about self-doubt, erasure, and the brain fog that rolls in when your ex dates your clone—or your antithesis.
One version says:
You only loved the idea of me, and now you’re building it with someone else.
The other says:
You didn’t love me, because I wasn’t someone else.
And neither of those versions feels real anymore. You start losing grip on your own story.
Were you ever the main character? Or just a placeholder in someone else’s coming-of-age arc?
This is where identity starts to dissolve. Where your reflection is just… meh. Because how can you be sure who you are, when someone else is out there living your aesthetic and getting all the credit?
So you do what any unhinged heartbroken legend does:
- You reinvent.
- You redye your hair.
- You delete the Spotify playlist you made for them (even though it was fire).
- And you stream these songs while rebuilding your personality from scratch like a Sims character who just got dumped and got a whole new wardrobe.
This is rock bottom, yes.
But it’s also your origin story.
Because after the Control-Alt-Delete…
comes the Reboot.
Every time I see her, I wonder if she knows she’s playing my role
I can already feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. This is that cringe-horror feeling. It’s that “Oh. My. God” moment when you see your ex’s new partner and suddenly, it’s not just a breakup—it’s an identity theft heist. But worse? She doesn’t even know.
Conan’s “Lookalike” is a song that doesn’t just talk about the new person—it’s a reality show narrated by an emotional stalker. Every lyric oozes with that feeling of deja vu—like you’re watching your own role get played out by someone else in real time. And it’s not even a good role.
See, here’s the kicker: the new person doesn’t just look like you. They are you. They’re reading from the same script you once wrote, unaware of the plot twists you lived through. They’re playing the part you left behind, and it’s like watching your own reflection, but with a different face.
It’s haunting, right? This isn’t just heartbreak—it’s a re-run of a season you thought was over. You’re watching someone else live your version of events, stealing your lines, wearing your shoes. But you—the original—you’re still standing in the wings, clapping like a good sport, while they get the applause.
What really stings is that the new girl isn’t aware of the role she’s been cast in. She thinks she’s winning. She doesn’t even know the emotional script she’s been handed. She’s auditioning for a role you already perfected, thinking she’s making it her own.
And you’re standing there in the shadows, like a forgotten character. Watching someone else play the love of your life, while you’re left with the weirdest sense of déjà vu.
Tyler’s angle in “Like Him” is almost… cosmic in its tragedy. Tyler isn’t just seeing someone else live his life. He’s witnessing the new guy completely erase him. Tyler’s new form of existential dread is realizing that the guy his ex picked—he doesn’t just have his face, his habits, or his “flavor.” He’s living the story that Tyler was supposed to live.
Tyler isn’t even mad that his ex moved on. He’s mad because that new guy isn’t him. He’s playing a role that Tyler had been building up for years—except Tyler wasn’t the chosen one. And that stings.
There’s this suffocating awareness: his ex’s new relationship isn’t just a new chapter. It’s a sequel. The new guy gets to rewrite the script while Tyler’s original story gets buried. And in the most haunting twist, Tyler knows this—but the new guy doesn’t. He’s just a player in a game he doesn’t even understand.
What makes these lines so chilling is how eerie the realization is. You’re not just a person watching from the outside—you’re a ghost in your own story. You created this narrative, wrote your own lines, and even if you’re not in the final cut, you can still feel the weight of it. Every glance at the new person makes you question, was this my fate all along? Was I just a placeholder in someone else’s script?
That eerie sensation hits hardest when you realize: You were never the main character in their story. You were just a plot device.
Both Conan and Tyler navigate this sense of being written out of the narrative. For Conan, it’s more of a slow burn of realization. The new person isn’t just a rebound—they’re a replacement. A perfectly cast replacement, as if someone rewrote your love story with someone better.
Meanwhile, Tyler is stuck in a nightmare where the “new guy” doesn’t even realize he’s acting out his exact story, on his exact path, like an actor playing Tyler’s life role while Tyler watches in agony, waiting for the credits to roll.
The real haunting part? The new person doesn’t even know they’re performing. They think they’re doing their own thing. And yet, in a cruel twist of fate, their lives are just mirror images of what you’ve already lived. You’re watching yourself live a ghost life.
It’s like being replaced by someone you created. Someone who doesn’t know the depth of the emotional backstory. But they’re playing the role just right. Better than you could ever.
So where do you go from here? The ending is undecided, my friend. But if you’re Tyler or Conan, the only way forward is to take back the pen. You get to write the next chapter. You get to figure out who you really are outside of the versions of yourself that you’ve let others play.
Because no matter how many doppelgängers they cast, your story isn’t finished.
And you—you are still the main character.
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