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Katherine Li has already proven her resonant skill of capturing the familiar anxieties of wondering whether someone will love back, but now in her debut album I Love You, or Whatever, she unapologetically steps into the more nuanced sides of connection and personal growth. Li moves effortlessly between the excitement of new love, the bitterness of a friendship breakup, the shame of jealousy and the exhausting desire to fit in, crafting songs that are as candid as they are catchy.

Canadian Chinese pop artist and songwriter Katherine Li first gained recognition on TikTok and was later featured in The New Yorker for her rise on the platform, her relationship with fans is built on a more personal kind of connection, from intimate exchanges to virtual movie nights revisiting coming-of-age classics. On Li’s debut album, I Love You, or Whatever, she reimagines the rom-com as a three-act journey, tracing not only a romantic relationship, but friendships and the relationship she has with herself. 

“So Cliche” opens the record with a starry-eyed, light country-fied acoustic sound and diary-like lyrics that carry the dreaminess of being mesmerized by another person. Even as little flickers of insecurity try to make their way to the surface, Li finds herself suddenly willing to partake in all the romantic cheesiness she probably would have cringed at in the past, simply because the person beside her makes it feel worthwhile. Drifting falsetto harmonies levitate in the background, softening the track even further and adding to its weightless charm — making it an endearing introduction to the album’s songwriting and musicality.

That sweetness gives way to something sharper on “Thief,” where Li somehow manages to turn a story rooted in betrayal and deception into an absolutely infectious alt-pop anthem. Beneath the bite of her vocals lies a certain vulnerability, one that blooms after a friend prioritizes a boy over you — a boy you originally liked, no less. “’Cause I told you that he was every single thing I liked / How I thought about him every night / I thought that you were on my side,” she sings, laying bare the sting of being betrayed by someone you trusted with your feelings. Steadfast drums keep the song moving, while a spark of electric guitar adds a glimmer of well-deserved spite. Li transforms this confusion and loss of trust into something confrontational and borderline empowering, her vocal delivery carrying just the right twinge of attitude to give the track an air of self-assurance despite the lingering hurt.

On “Blend In,” Li trades that confrontational energy for a sofer, more raw openness. The piano ballad examines the mental detriment of people-pleasing and molding yourself into someone different just to be seen. There’s a striking honesty in the way Li approaches the subject, refusing to dress up the experience in anything more complicated than it needs to be. “I’m not misguided / It’s just politeness” is a standout lyric, offering a simple, blunt explanation for the dizzying concept of wanting to fit in. The clean piano arrangement forces you to truly pay attention to the confessional lyrics and the emotions behind every word.

That same emotional candor carries into “Hate Her Enough,” which explores the uncontrollable guilt that accumulates when you try to force yourself to not like someone simply because you want to be them. It’s a feeling and experience many of us have had at least once: desperately searching for character flaws in someone in the hope that they might somehow overpower your jealousy, because no one wants to admit they envy another person. “And they cheer / When she walks / When she breathes / I don’t blame them,” Li sings, acknowledging the very qualities that make her jealousy so difficult to shake. Lingering piano notes establish the emotional foundation, while heartfelt acoustic strums and Li’s fluid yet grounded vocals sit comfortably within each feeling. After the second chorus, a radiant electric guitar stretches outward, ushering in a fresh wave of emotion that builds toward the song’s most cathartic moment. The bridge drops into an intimate atmosphere of Li’s vocals and tight acoustic strums before gradually intensifying with the force of the bass drum and her cathartic ad-libs. Then, just as the emotion seems ready to spill over, the song falls into a piano-softened, broken final chorus: “If I hate her enough / It’d block out the jealous stuff.” 

“Whatever Major Loser” offers a welcome shift in energy, arriving as a vibrant conglomerate of sonic moments that pairs perfectly with the song’s eye-roll demeanor. Acoustic and electronic elements crash together to create a bold soundscape, giving the track a playful unpredictability. Li’s smirking spoken-word verses establish an attitude of deliberate indifference, while the glitchy echo effect in the pre-chorus adds a textural element that reinforces the sense of play. Rolling drums take off into a pop-rock infused chorus, and if the word “whatever” had a voice, it would be Li's on this track. Yet beneath the humor is a genuinely satisfying kind of self-assurance: the confidence to reject someone you know would never be good for you, or perhaps anyone.

The confidence settles into something a little more fragile on “One Foot Out,” a track whose gentle, atmospheric quality makes room for the insecurities that can persist even when you know, logically, that you have nothing to worry about. The acoustic guitar acts as a supportive anchor beneath Li’s soft vocals, creating an intimate space for the self-doubt that comes with feeling like the person who is always overlooked. It’s a song for the girls whose friends always got the romantic attention, leaving them with the overthinking and insecurities that come from wondering what makes everyone else so much easier to love: “It’s always Emma or Charlotte / So why would you want me if they’re right there.” Its cycle of self-directed second guesses is one that an abundance of people can connect to, and there’s a certain beauty to be found within that recognition. Even when someone gives you every reason to believe that they want you, those doubtful thoughts can still pop up without permission, paving the way for self-preserving tendencies that keep you from getting too comfortable. 

By the time the album reaches its title and closing track, “I Love You, or Whatever,” Li arrives at something resembling a full-circle moment. Li is finally allowing herself to fall fully into love despite her past experiences and lingering doubts. There’s an almost giddy discomfort to the track’s romantic vulnerability, reflecting the strangeness of allowing yourself to say those words to someone while still being unable to resist the butterflies that flutter when you indulge in them. The instrumentals reflect this newfound hopefulness. Light guitar strums and delicate cymbal taps lend the song an airy quality, while Li’s voice takes on a new weightlessness, sounding freer from the walls she has built around herself throughout the album. A little fairy-tale feeling emerges in the guitar solo leading into the smiley bridge, where Li emphasizes her words with echoey chants. It’s a charming, almost cinematic payoff to a record that has spent so much time sitting with the less glamorous sides of wanting to be loved.

As a debut, I Love You, or Whatever thrives on its ability to make deeply personal emotions feel universally recognizable. When the final line of the album hits, “It’s weird to say but I think I love you or whatever,” there’s both an understanding and excitement for Li’s love-filled self-growth. There’s no pretending that love will make every past doubt disappear, but in the final moment, there’s a freeing permission to take the leap, awkward phrasing and all. 

Listen to I Love You, or Whatever below: