THE SONG HE NEVER MEANT TO SHARE — Richard Carpenter’s Private Farewell That Still Breaks Hearts Today
There are songs that chart. Songs that win awards. And then there are songs that were never meant for the world — songs so personal, they feel like they were written in the silence of a room where grief sits heavy and memories refuse to fade.
Richard Carpenter’s “I’m Still Not Over You” is one of those rare pieces.
Long after the applause had quieted and the world had moved on, Richard remained — at the piano, alone — trying to make sense of a loss that words could never capture. Karen was gone, but the bond they shared didn’t vanish with her. Instead, it echoed — quietly, relentlessly — in the space where her voice used to be.
This unreleased ballad, rarely heard outside the closest circles, is not a song for the stage. It is a hymn of sorrow, a confession of longing, and above all, a brother’s final conversation with the sister he could never quite let go.
There are no soaring crescendos. No lush orchestration. Just Richard’s delicate touch on the piano — aching, hesitant, like he’s afraid that even pressing the keys too hard might shatter the illusion that she’s still somewhere nearby.
And then there’s the melody. Simple. Fragile. Almost incomplete. As if he left space for her voice — the voice that defined their legacy — to drift in, just for a moment. If you listen closely, you can almost hear her. Not in the lyrics, not in any recording, but in the spaces between the notes. In the pauses where Richard lingers, remembering.
“I’m still not over you,” he whispers — not with his voice, but with every minor chord, every unresolved phrase. It’s not a declaration. It’s a truth. A truth that no amount of time, success, or tribute albums could soften. Because you don’t get over someone who was part of your soul.
What makes the song so devastating isn’t just the sentiment. It’s the fact that Richard never intended to release it. It wasn’t written for fans. It wasn’t written for healing. It was written because he had to — because sometimes music is the only language that grief understands.
This wasn’t closure. It wasn’t catharsis. It was a brother trying to reach through time, through death, through silence — and maybe, just maybe, hear her one more time.
To this day, those who have heard “I’m Still Not Over You” say the same thing: time stops. Not because of the technical beauty, but because of the raw humanity. You feel the years of loneliness. The birthdays missed. The harmonies that will never be sung again. And most of all, the aching question that remains unanswered: Could he have saved her, if only he had seen the signs sooner?
That question haunts the song. It haunts those who listen. And perhaps, it still haunts Richard.
In a world that constantly demands we “move on,” Richard Carpenter gave us something braver — a refusal to let go of someone who mattered too much to forget.
So when you listen — if you ever do — don’t expect polish. Don’t expect performance. Expect something far more rare: a man mourning his sister, not with tears, but with music that bleeds from the soul.
It is not just a goodbye.
It is a promise: “I’m still not over you. And I never will be.”