Taylor Swift wrote How Did It End? as a kind of emotional autopsy — an attempt to understand the end of something that once seemed too solid to simply fall apart. She and Joe Alwyn spent six years together in a bubble of privacy, building a relationship far from the chaos of the outside world. However, when real life resumed, the structure began to crumble. The song doesn’t scream, doesn’t cast blame directly — it questions, almost in silence, how everything was lost. That’s what makes it so devastating: a collapse that comes quietly, as if the love had died in silence, the soul slowly slipping away without anyone noticing. Taylor tries to make sense of it, but the question keeps haunting her: “How did it end?” She repeats it, with pain and disbelief, like someone reliving a dream that dissolved.

That kind of breakup — subtle, confusing, without explicit drama — seems to echo with precision what Carrie Bradshaw experienced with Aidan Shaw, not only in And Just Like That…, but since the days of Sex and the City. The feeling that they were destined to fail was always there, even during moments of apparent happiness. They genuinely tried, on more than one occasion. But each new attempt was already tainted by the memory of the last failure. Like in Taylor’s song, the ending was already quietly embedded in the new beginning.

Taylor’s lyrics match the final break between them perfectly. When she sings about essential incompatibility — “He was a hothouse flower to my outdoorsman” — it could easily apply to Carrie and Aidan. Aidan always represented the opposite of Carrie’s world: rustic, calm, resistant to urban chaos. He wanted a house in the country; she wanted parties in Manhattan. That never changed, not even years later, when they reunited in And Just Like That…. Like Taylor and Joe, they built a bubble where they tried to exist together — and failed.

Taylor’s song opens with “It’s happening again” — the return of something painful we’ve already known. That line hits hard in And Just Like That… — because for Carrie and Aidan, it was happening again. And deep down, we already knew how it would end.

Aidan was the right guy on paper. Gentle, reliable, family-oriented. The kind of man who wanted porches and Sunday dinners. But Carrie never quite fit that vision, no matter how much she wanted to. Even when she played the part, it felt like a costume she wore for someone else’s fantasy. They were out of sync. Like dancers trying to waltz to two different songs. The mismatch was always there — and it was always going to unravel.

Which makes the contrast with Mr. Big even more poignant. John Preston was a man who appreciated the classics — not just in taste, but in the way he loved. Vinyl over CDs, Cuban cigars, big band nights, jazz clubs. Music mattered to him. Deeply. Throughout their relationship, songs marked turning points. Moon River, for instance, defined one of the most bittersweet moments in their story.

In And Just Like That…, we learn that Big and Carrie had a little ritual — the “record of the day,” played in alphabetical order. By the time we say goodbye to Big, they’re on the letter R. “Yesterday was Rondstadt. Today is…?” he asks. “Todd Rundgren,” Carrie replies. “My favorite!” he says with delight. “They all are,” she answers, and the love in that exchange says everything.

The record, Hello It’s Me, plays. They dance. But this time, it’s a farewell. Quiet, graceful, final.

And it brings us back to season 4, episode 18 — “I Heart New York” — when Big is about to move to California, and Carrie helps him pack. She finds Moon River on vinyl. “My favorite,” he tells her, and pulls her into a slow, seductive twist dance — completely at odds with the gentle tone of the song, but somehow perfect. The lyrics about two drifters off to see the world mirror their perpetual near-misses. They loved each other, but could never seem to stay aligned. Moon River was their song. Until it was replaced by Rundgren’s Hello It’s Me.

That song, written after Rundgren was dumped by a girlfriend whose father didn’t want her dating a hippie, tells the story of a breakup disguised as a soft landing. The lyrics ache with regret. “I take for granted that you’re always there.” That line hits like a punch after what happens in the episode. Later, at Big’s funeral, it’s this song Carrie chooses to soundtrack the video tribute to his life:
“Think of me/you know that I’d be with you if I could…”

And we understand — Carrie will carry him with her. Not just in memories, but in imagined moments to come. In a carriage ride in New York, in a dream of Paris. He’s gone, but he’s there. Hello, It’s Me plays, and we cry all over again.

Big got a goodbye song. Aidan got silence.

That’s the difference.

Big was the impossible love that eventually became possible. Aidan was the possible love that never quite happened. With Big, Carrie danced to music that didn’t match the steps — but the passion, the chaos, the longing made it work. With Aidan, the music seemed right, but the dance never really began. Or ended before it could.

When Aidan finally walks away, there’s no explosion. Just resignation. Carrie stands in the doorway, unsure how it slipped away. The question remains: How did it end?

Big’s goodbye had a soundtrack.
Aidan’s had an echo.

And sometimes, the echo hurts more.