The former mathematics educator brings her analytical precision to bear on the messy arithmetic of love, crafting verses that unfold with the logical progression of a proof, only to arrive at conclusions that defy all reason. Her vocals carry the weight of Vancouver Island's coastal mists, drifting between resignation and yearning with a restraint that speaks volumes.

Pete Lesperance's guitar work provides the perfect foil to Baron's confessional delivery—melancholic riffs that seem to argue with the lyrics even as they support them. The production, handled by Baron herself alongside engineer Denis Tougas, creates space around each word, allowing the contradictions to breathe and settle into uncomfortable truths.

The accompanying video, shot mere steps from Baron's home on those famously beautiful beaches, captures the song's essential paradox. Here is an artist singing about forgetting while surrounded by the very landscape that surely holds every memory she claims to have abandoned. The visual simplicity—Baron against the endless Pacific—mirrors the song's deceptive straightforwardness.

What elevates this beyond standard breakup fare is Baron's willingness to embrace the absurdity of her own premise. "How can you sing about someone and say that you don't think about them anymore?" she asks, and the question hangs over the entire piece like morning fog. The chorus becomes almost comedic in its earnest contradiction: protesting too much, explaining too thoroughly why someone never crosses her mind.

This is indie folk that refuses to take itself entirely seriously, yet never mocks the genuine pain beneath its wry observations. Baron has crafted a small masterpiece of emotional complexity, one that understands that moving on is less about forgetting than about learning to live with the beautiful burden of memory.

The track sits comfortably alongside the work of Sara Bareilles and Brandi Carlile, yet Baron's mathematical background lends her songwriting a structural elegance that sets her apart. She builds her case for indifference with the thoroughness of someone proving a theorem, only to watch it collapse under the weight of its own evidence.

"I Don't Think About You Anymore" works precisely because it doesn't—think about you anymore, that is. Instead, it thinks about thinking about you, and finds in that recursive loop something far more honest than simple forgetting ever could be.