C’EST LA VIE [Prelude] lyrics

This is my fifth lyrical concept album.
21 songs.
All written by me. No co-writers, no filters, no masks.
Just the 19-year-old Yuri, sitting in his bedroom, overthinking, oversharing, probably at 3am, turning that mess into music.
I wrote this album in two months.
Two months of reliving everything I’ve ever felt just to make sure it was real enough to put in songs.

The first half of this album is the past — not the big dramatic past, but the small, quiet one that eats away at you slowly.
It’s me at 16, walking home after school wondering why my friends suddenly started acting like I wasn’t there.
It’s sending long texts to people who never replied, and rereading the messages I never should’ve sent.
It’s begging someone to love me back without actually saying the words.
It’s me refreshing their Instagram story just to see if they were alive, because apparently being “left on read” isn’t dramatic enough to count as heartbreak.
It’s about trying to be the “good one,” the “nice one,” the “strong one,” until you realize none of those things actually save you from being forgotten.

It’s also the stuff I never really showed.
The version of me that spirals when someone cancels plans last-minute.
The jealousy when I see people moving on like I was never in the picture.
The fake smiles I’ve mastered in public when I was falling apart in private.
The need to be enough — smart enough, pretty enough, fun enough — because somewhere along the line, I decided that love was something you had to audition for.
This part of the album hurts, but it had to.

Track 11 is where it all shifts.
It’s just me speaking with the voice of someone who held me through all of this — my mom.
Not her literal voice, but everything she’s ever said to me when I didn’t know what to do.
“Be strong, let your soul stay free.”
“Friends can turn, the seasons change.”
“Money’s loud but rarely wise.”
“Tears may fall, and that’s okay.”
She didn’t raise me to be a victim. She raised me to be soft without breaking.
And honestly, I’m still learning how.
The second half of the album is where things get lighter. Not easier, but freer.
It’s where I stop begging for crumbs and start demanding full meals.
Where I learn to love myself — not in a Pinterest quote kind of way, but in a real, sweaty, bloated, mirror-on-a-bad-day kind of way.
It’s the part of the album where I’m feeling myself.
Where I put on the outfit I used to be too scared to wear and walk out the door anyway.
Where I stop saying “sorry” for taking up space.
Where I finally let myself want joy without guilt.
This is the most me I’ve ever been — confident, honest, sometimes a little dramatic, but no longer ashamed of that.

I fall in love slower now. With boundaries. With clarity.
I don’t chase red flags dressed as butterflies.
I want affection, reassurance, stability — and I’m no longer afraid to ask for it.
I’ve stopped romanticizing people who only loved the broken parts of me.
Now I’m choosing people who clap when I heal, not when I hurt.

This part of the album isn’t about having it all figured out — it’s about finally realizing I don’t have to.
It’s messy. It’s emotional. It feels like a slaYuri album.

C’est la vie.
That’s life.
And this?
This is mine.