In this interview, Riley Finch unpacks the emotional core of “Did You Even Flinch?”, confronting abandonment, silence, and unresolved endings with stark honesty, vulnerability, and the quiet strength of simply enduring.
1. “Did You Even Flinch?” feels very direct and emotionally exposed. What made you decide to confront abandonment so plainly rather than hiding behind metaphor?
I didn’t hide behind metaphor because this wasn’t abstract for me. Abandonment like that doesn’t feel poetic, it feels blunt, confusing, and unfinished. When someone disappears instead of speaking, they’re making a choice not to explain, not to close the door, not to acknowledge what you gave. That silence tells you everything without actually saying anything.
I’ve spent a lot of my life being the person people lean on when they’re breaking, and then watching them vanish once they feel steady again. No reason. No goodbye. Just absence. At some point, I realized that pretending it didn’t hurt was a kind of self-erasure.
I wrote the song the way the experience felt, stripped down, unanswered, and exposed. Saying it plainly was my way of pushing back against the idea that I wasn’t worth the time it would’ve taken to say something. I was worth it. I still am.
2. The song sits in unresolved space instead of offering closure or empowerment. Why was it important for you to let that discomfort remain?
A lot of things in life don’t resolve themselves. There isn’t always a conversation, or an apology, or a clean ending that makes sense of everything. Sometimes the truth is just that something ends and you’re left holding it alone. That felt more honest to me than trying to force a moment of closure that never existed.
I think there is empowerment in that, even if it doesn’t look like the kind we like to package and celebrate. Life isn’t usually neat or uplifting in the ways we pretend it is. Most people walk around carrying unfinished things, even if they don’t talk about them. Letting the discomfort stay felt closer to how those experiences actually live inside you.
The situation that inspired this song was never resolved, so I couldn’t write it any other way. I had to learn how to live with that lack of answers. I still carry it, and I still struggle with it at times, but it doesn’t get to control my life. I’m still here. I’m still moving forward. And sometimes that’s the real form of strength.
3. You’ve described the track as a slow-burn rather than an immediate release. How did that pacing reflect the emotions you were processing while writing it?
I was writing it while I was still inside the situation, not after everything had settled. There was a lot of confusion at first, and a lot of anger, and none of it came in a clean, dramatic moment. Abandonment usually feels like it happens out of nowhere, but when you really look back, it’s rarely sudden. It’s something that builds.
It starts with small shifts you don’t want to notice. Calls that stop happening. Messages that come later, or not at all. A change in how you’re spoken to. One thing on its own doesn’t mean much, but they stack up quietly over time. You don’t really see it until the moment it finally hits, and then it feels overwhelming.
After the initial anger passed, I started replaying everything from the beginning and realizing how long it had been unfolding. The pacing of the song reflects that. It moves slowly because that’s how the understanding came to me, piece by piece, after the fact. It’s actually calmer than I felt at the time, but that calm came from looking back and seeing the pattern instead of just reacting to the impact.
4. This song lived unfinished for a long time before being released. What finally pushed you to let it exist outside of yourself?
For a long time, I wasn’t trying to finish it or share it. It existed as something I needed to get through, not something meant to be heard. Leaving it unfinished felt safer because it stayed private and unresolved, just like the situation itself.
What changed wasn’t closure. It was realizing that keeping it to myself wasn’t protecting me anymore. The song had already done what it needed to do for me, and holding onto it past that point started to feel like another way of staying stuck. Letting it exist outside of myself wasn’t about moving on or turning a page. It was about acknowledging that the experience was real and that it mattered, even without answers.
Once I accepted that it didn’t need to be complete to be honest, I was able to let it go.
5. Vocally, the performance stays restrained before opening up. How intentional was that balance between control and release?
It wasn’t intentional in a psychological or strategic way. I wasn’t sitting there thinking about control versus release or how it might land with someone listening. I was just following the flow of the song as it was coming out of me.
I knew I wanted the emotion to feel real and balanced, but a lot of the restraint came naturally from where I was emotionally at the time. I was still holding a lot in. I was trying to stay composed, even while everything underneath was unsettled.
I was also lucky to have friends in the room who knew what they were doing. They helped guide where things should stay pulled back and where the song could open up more for the sake of the music. So in that sense, it became intentional through collaboration, not because I was aiming for a specific effect. I’d probably have to ask them how intentional it felt on their end.
6. For listeners who may relate to loyalty, silence, and unanswered questions, what do you hope they take with them after hearing the song?
I hope they leave knowing that what they’re feeling is real, and that it matters. When someone disappears or stays silent, it’s easy to give them all the power and start believing your worth depended on their attention or approval. Then they move on, and you’re left holding the weight of everything that was never said.
I want people to hear the song and understand that it’s okay to be hurt by that. It’s okay to struggle with it. Loyalty, silence, and unanswered questions can shake your confidence and make you doubt yourself in ways that are hard to explain. That doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means something happened to you.
If there’s any hope in the song, it’s in the reminder that you’re not alone in that experience, even when it feels isolating. You can carry what happened without letting it define your worth or erase you. The people who walked away may never acknowledge the damage they caused, but that doesn’t make your pain imaginary or undeserved. I hope listeners feel seen, understood, and a little less alone after hearing it.
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