I’ve spent whole nights drunk off a boy’s attention, convinced the way he looked at me meant something more, only to crash later when his friends were still acting single—buying rounds for strangers, flirting with anything that smiled, swapping Instas, slipping off to smoke with girls on the patio—and every girl in the room wanted a piece. That sick mix of turned on and insecure? That’s what Mia Matayoshi bottles in ‘Delusional’. It’s the rush of thinking you’re his only, even when the room makes you feel like you’re losing ground. I hear her singing “Am I delusional, thinking I’m not all you need,” and it’s like she cracked open my own late-night doubts and laid them over a beat built to make you fuck, sweat, and forget.
Mia isn’t new to performance. Born in Okinawa, raised in Hong Kong, and sharpened in San Francisco, she has been training her body and voice since she was a child—dancer, model, singer, the whole package. That polish shows, but what makes her stand out is the honesty. She isn’t afraid to sound messy. She wants us to hear the spirals we’d rather hide. She pulls influence from Ariana Grande’s gloss, Billie Eilish’s shadow, Tyla’s sensuality, Tate McRae’s confessional edge. It’s giving pop girl who grew up on stages but still writes like she’s crying into her phone notes at 3 a.m.
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From the jump, she’s confessing, “Somebody told me I’m not breathing, holding it in cuz I got this feeling.” That’s the high of new attraction, like your body forgets its rhythm because someone else just walked into the room. She locks him down in her mind—“You’re a 10 in my eyes and they all can see it”—but she can’t help spinning on herself, repeating “I must be dreaming, I must be dreaming.” I’ve been there, staring too long at someone across a room, convinced the night’s about to break open.
The pre-chorus counts it out—“One two three and you’re all for me, four five six and my mind plays tricks”—a cute little schoolyard cadence turned anxious mantra. By the time she calls herself “a lucky girl for a boy like—” the sweetness tastes sharp, like she’s trying to convince herself she deserves it.
Then the chorus lands with weight. “Come give me love, come save me from my own thoughts that haunt me. Come give me love, come touch me, is it so wrong to say am I delusional.” That’s not a pop line, that’s a prayer whispered against someone’s mouth when you’re already half naked. I’ve begged like that, hoping sex would drown the voice in my head telling me he’ll leave anyway.
The second verse cuts deeper. “Maybe it’s the way your friends act single for the boys in the bars they like to mingle. Maybe it’s the way girls flock to you, taking their turns trying to talk to you.” That’s the pink flag vibe—he’s not guilty, but the air around him is sus. And I get it, that cocktail hits hard: half turned on because he’s a whole snack, half pressed because you don’t know if he’ll still be yours when the lights come up.
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The hook circles back sharper: “This can’t be all mine for free, you can’t be as good as you seem.” It’s the part where your lust makes you greedy, your doubt makes you spiral, and you still can’t pull yourself off the floor. The beat stays bussin’, so instead of sinking into your head, you dance harder, sweat more, grind like your body might answer the question your brain can’t.
Mia told fans, “I want ‘Delusional’ to empower those who have ever felt insecure in love. This song is a celebration of our vulnerabilities and a reminder that we’re not alone.” And she nails it. Vulnerability doesn’t kill the sexy—here, it makes it raw. Every girl who’s stared into a bathroom mirror with smudged eyeliner, talking herself back into the party, knows this feeling. Insecurity isn’t weakness. It’s part of the desire.
By the end, when she pleads, “Tell me I’m delusional,” it doesn’t sound pathetic—it’s the hottest kind of honesty. The kind that dares someone to love you harder just to prove you wrong. That’s why ‘Delusional’ lives rent-free in my head. It slays as a dance track, it eats as confession, and it reminds me that even at our messiest, we’re still fire.
