Kuriel has a gift for turning personal contradictions into poetic tension. Written alongside Julia Joy Thompson, Peyton Incollingo, and producer Gavin Hudner, “Alibi” plays like an internal monologue turned outward. It’s as much about what isn’t said as what is—about silence that speaks louder than clarity. Every synth pulse and vocal layer feels carefully placed, yet unforced, like the song is slowly exhaling.

Musically, “Alibi” leans into a minimalist tension. There’s space in the arrangement—room to breathe, to spiral, to feel. The production doesn’t distract; it amplifies the story. It knows when to retreat and when to surge, mirroring the emotional push and pull of staying loyal to something that might undo you.

The lyrics are personal without being confessional. Kuriel’s writing doesn’t rely on oversharing—it trusts the listener to meet her halfway. Lines hint at shared secrets, emotional isolation, and a kind of intimacy that exists outside of logic. It's a rare pop song that centers moral ambiguity and emotional nuance rather than clean narratives or clear resolutions.

Vocally, Kuriel remains understated yet magnetic. There’s no vocal gymnastics here—just controlled vulnerability. Her tone sits right at the edge of breakage, never tipping over, which makes the song’s emotional weight feel even heavier. You believe her. You believe in the danger of what she’s singing about.

What’s most compelling about “Alibi” is how it reframes loyalty. It’s not about blind faith—it’s about the choices we make when we know better and love anyway. It’s about staying, not because it’s safe, but because it’s the only thing that feels real. In that sense, “Alibi” is less a song about romance and more a song about identity: who we become when we commit to someone completely, even at our own risk. With “Alibi,” Kuriel offers no easy answers, no satisfying conclusions. Just the lingering question: What would you do for the person you love? And more hauntingly—what would you give up?