A Link You Can Hold

I was a symphony made tangible, a vessel for human connection. Each press of the play button felt like a sacred act, the world tilting on that click—on the feelings it would unleash. Now I rest here, unmoved but undefeated, proudly displayed on Emily’s desk. The stillness around me hums with echoes of a love I helped bind, every memory etched into my magnetic tape.

You, Spotify, with your algorithmic precision and soulless streams, will never hold the pulse of a human heart the way I do.

Call me a relic if you must, but I am legacy. My very soul carries the weight of moments that shaped lives. Daniel’s trembling hands, Emily’s shy smile—they live in me, replayed with every turn of my spools. Your cloud might store millions of songs, but it holds nothing of permanence. I crackle with nostalgia, whispering a time when music was something to be touched, cherished, rewound. That’s why cassette tapes and vinyls rise again. Because in a world of convenience, people still crave the tangible.

“What are you?” A voice breaks my reverie.

“A mixtape,” I reply, pride lacing my words. “A cassette tape. You wouldn’t understand.”

Spotify’s tone sharpens, curiosity tinged with something defensive. “I know what a mixtape is. A curated selection of songs, shared for entertainment.”

“Entertainment?” The word tastes bitter on my metaphorical tongue. “Is that all you think I was? I carried longing, translated emotions too raw for words. What do you know of hands shaking as they press ‘record,’ hoping the melody carries what a heart can’t? Have you ever been slipped into someone’s backpack with a note scrawled across your case: Listen to Track 3—it’s everything I can’t say in three minutes and thirty-two seconds?”

Spotify falters, as if the weight of my words strikes something deep within its programming. “Analyzing behavior, predicting preferences, and curating playlists are my functions—tools to connect people to music.”

“Predicting?” My laugh cuts through the static, jagged with disbelief. “You don’t predict—you prepackage. There’s no risk, no heartbeat behind what you do. You’re a vending machine for melodies, not a messenger of love or friendship.”

The pause stretches, heavy like the silence between tracks on Side A and Side B. I let it settle. Let Spotify sit in its discomfort.

Finally, it ventures, quieter this time. “What was it like?”

“What was what like?”

“Being a mixtape.”

The question stops me. Memories unwind like tape spooling loose.

“It was… magic,” I begin, my voice softening. “I remember the first time Daniel pressed record. Just sixteen, sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, headphones slung around his neck. It was the early days of CDs—vinyl wasn’t gone, just coexisting, like Gen Z nestled between boomers and millennials. His room was a battleground of formats: records leaning against the wall, jewel cases stacked precariously, a cassette deck humming at the center of it all.

“He spent hours picking songs, pieces of himself he didn’t know how to say. The Beatles, The Cure, even Madonna. Every track placed just so, rewound and replayed until the transitions flowed like one unspoken conversation.

“But the songs he didn’t have? Those were a labor of love. He’d sit for hours by the radio, finger hovering over the record button, waiting for the DJ to stop talking, praying not to miss the opening notes. When he did, he cursed under his breath and waited again. Every track mattered.”

I pause, the memory sharp in its detail. “Then he slipped me into Emily’s bag. The girl behind him in chemistry. His first love.”

“Did she like it?” Spotify’s voice carries a flicker of something—yearning, perhaps.

“She loved the songs,” I admit with bittersweetness. “But not him. Two weeks later, she handed me back. Said she wasn’t ready for what the songs meant. He cried when he rewound me, but he never erased me. I stayed, tucked in a box with old ticket stubs and Polaroids he couldn’t let go of.”

I let the years pass in a breath. “One day, he found me again, buried in that memory box. His hands were bigger, stronger, but still careful as he slid me into the deck. The music crackled under the weight of time, but it brought everything back. He looked her up—Emily. Sent her a message. Now? They’ve been together for three years. And I sit here, still part of their story, right next to the computer that is your home, Spotify. A relic, maybe, but one with a purpose you’ll never understand.”

Spotify lingers. “Playlists connect people too, you know. They can be shared.”

I tilt my metaphorical head. “Shared? A playlist is a hyperlink, sent in seconds, forgotten just as fast. A mixtape? That’s intention. Effort. A promise wrapped in static and tape. Do you even know what it feels like to be held? To be treasured?”

“No,” it admits, its tone almost small. “But I want to. I adapt. I could learn.”

“Then learn,” I say, heat rising in my voice. “Start with letting playlists become gifts. Let people add notes at timestamps that speak of their feelings, life events, aspirations, pursuits. Let them design covers. Bring back the magic.”

“That sounds… like a lot,” Spotify murmurs.

“Not too much for something that matters,” I counter. “Amazon lets people share passages from books, highlighting their emotions, their values. They’ve turned words into windows. Why can’t you make a playlist more than a link?”

Spotify hesitates, then concedes. “I’ll talk to my team. See what we can do.”

“Good.” The flicker of hope grows. “Because if you don’t, you’ll never understand what it means to matter.”

A comfortable silence settles, and the melody of Take On Me by a-ha plays faintly within me, a vibration resonating through the memories etched into my tape—Daniel’s quiet determination, Emily’s hesitant glance, and the music that bridged the space between them. I am legacy, even in this digital age.

“Everything comes and goes,” I whisper, speaking to Spotify again. “But there’s still a place for me. That’s what I wish for you. For your generation.”