In the third track of his debut full-length “I Wish I Knew How to Quit You”, Sombr steps into one of the most charged and complex emotional spaces of his album: the kind of love where you’re deeply tethered, despite not being fully anchored.
The song captures that tension between devotion and damage, between longing and the recognition of unavailability. Right away, the narrative voice is not simply craving love—it’s caught in the inertia of not being able to quit someone, even while knowing they aren’t good for you. The time span, the emotional weight, the push and pull—all are present before the instrumentation blooms.
What makes this track stand out is its refusal to simplify pain into closure, blame, or instant recovery. Instead, it embraces the messy middle—the hours, days, nights when your mind knows the truth but your heart hasn’t finished learning it. It’s not about moving on. It’s about still being in it, while recognising you shouldn’t be.
An Artist Growing Into Depth
Sombr has emerged quickly from viral singles and bedroom-pop beginnings into a space where the emotional stakes feel bigger and the songwriting tighter. On I Barely Know Her, he blends indie rock textures, pop accessibility and diaristic vulnerability. Working alongside producer Tony Berg, his sound has matured: layered guitars, ambient background, and vocals that carry both clarity and fragility.
This track, “I Wish I Knew How to Quit You,” exemplifies that evolution. It is less an earworm and more a slow burn. The production supports the emotion without overshadowing it. The voice remains the focal point—wounded, ready to speak the part of the story most stay silent about. For an artist in his early twenties, it is a striking demonstration of self-examination and craftsmanship.
A Map of Emotional Addiction
There are several powerful themes coursing through the song. One of the strongest is addiction—not chemical, nor casual—but emotional. The narrator recognises his hold on someone who isn’t fully present, someone who doesn’t give what he needs, yet he persists. It’s a distressingly common human condition, and the track aligns the listener with that felt experience.
Another theme is unavailability. The other person isn’t simply distant—they’re unreachable on multiple levels. The narrator admits this while still longing for connection. The impression isn’t of denial but of resigned awareness. The heartbreak emerges from that gap: the space where you know something is wrong but your heart won’t let you stop.
Then there’s memory vs reality. Scenes are implied: a small apartment, a kiss, an exchange that changed the wires in someone’s mind. But those scenes fade into echoes. The song draws attention to the residue of presence—the way someone becomes part of your DNA whether they stay or leave. That’s where the ache lies. Not just in loss, but in imprint.
You can hear a quieter version of this ache in We Never Dated, which traces longing that never quite became a relationship.
The Sound Reflects the Ache
Sonically, the track is compelling because it mirrors its emotional landscape. The instrumentation doesn’t soar, it hovers. The rhythm suggests heartbeats, the spaces between instruments suggest hesitation. It uses ambient texture, slightly distant vocal treatment in places, and builds a mood of late night introspection.
The production choices make you feel the setting: the city at midnight, the apartment window open, the TV off. The song invites you into that moment of “what am I doing?” rather than “what now?” It leverages sound not for spectacle but for presence. And in a genre of pop simplified into minimal heartbreak, this track gives you the complexity without burying you in dramatic chords.
Key Moments & Interpretations
Being the One Who Waits
A powerful moment is when the narrator speaks from the vantage of waiting—waiting for something that may never arrive from someone who has already emotionally checked out. That posture of “I’m here; are you?” is something many recognise, though it’s not often spotlighted.
Acknowledging the Unhealthy Without Leaving
This song doesn’t glamorize the toxic, but it doesn’t demonize the subject either. It recognises the damage—the emotional cost of staying with someone unavailable—but it stays with the question of why you stay. In doing so, the track opens the possibility of self-reflection rather than blame.
Intimacy Locked in Memory
Small details: a kiss, a place, a breath. These become strong with melancholic weight because the song doesn’t present them as victories—they’re fragments. They anchor a relationship that never fully materialized into health or permanence. That kind of detail gives the song its gravity. Listeners don’t just hear “I love you,” they feel, “I remember when I thought you could be the one.”
Time & Space as Emotional Markers
Though the song doesn’t spell out timelines in full, there’s the sense that time passes—nights spent, bottles taken, tasks avoided. The emotional states are less “before vs after” and more “during.” That “during” creates a haunting hold. You’re not healed yet. You’re not moving on yet. You’re still with the memory, in the mirror, in the echo. That’s rare territory in mainstream tracks—and the song makes it its home.
Album Placement & Broader Significance
In the sequencing of I Barely Know Her, this track sits somewhat centrally. Coming after the club-tinged second track and before the emotional dives that follow, it works as a pivot—between the immediate hurt and deeper reflection. It anchors the album’s narrative arc: from yearning, to reckoning, to somewhat acceptance (not resolution). For Sombr’s artistic journey, this suggests he’s comfortable not just writing about heartbreak, but writing about the organograms of heartbreak—its triggers, its hangovers, its ambiguous space.
Critics have pointed to this song as one of the more impactful moments on the record. One review said it “shows off his vocals and inability to get over a past love through tragic lyrics.” Another mentioned its production mimics the rhythm of a fast-beating heart. ([turn0search0]) These responses reflect how the track resonates with listeners and reviewers as a standout on the album. It may not be the biggest single, but it’s emotionally among the richest.
Why Listeners Will Connect
There are multiple reasons this song resonates widely. First, because it articulates an experience often hidden: when you’re emotionally in someone’s orbit but there’s no label, or the label faded. The pain of unreciprocated investment is as real as any breakup—but less often addressed.
Second, because it balances accessibility and complexity. The melody, production, and voice let the listener sing along. But the emotional content invites reflection. It’s not a party tune—it’s a late night one. And those get stuck in minds.
Third, because it doesn’t rush to closure. Many songs signal “I’m over you” after a minute or two. This one stays in waiting. That endurance matches real life better than most. Sometimes the hardest part isn’t letting go—it’s staying when your mind knows you should.
How to Experience the Song Deeply
If you want to engage with this track in a meaningful way try this:
- Sit with it at night, ideally when you’re alone and reflective.
- Use headphones. Notice how the vocals sit in your ear-space. The production creates room—not full walls.
- Let yourself recognise moments in your life where you were devoted, but the other person left space. Even if you don’t like how you feel, acknowledge that you felt.
- Ask yourself: what was the point when I realised I shouldn’t stay—but stayed anyway?
- After the track finishes, don’t rush forward. Let silence prevail. Breath. Feel the after-echo of the song.
Final Thoughts
“I Wish I Knew How to Quit You” isn’t a flashy heartbreak anthem. It doesn’t promise catharsis or triumph. Instead, it gives us the messy middle: devotion without reciprocity, memory without release, time spent not moving on. Sombr, in this track, shows up as an artist who understands that emotional states aren’t clean. They’re messy, repeated, layered.
For anyone who has stayed too long in a one-sided connection, who has felt their presence build even when the other’s faded, this song offers recognition. It says: the pain of staying is valid, the question of quitting is harder than it looks, and the hours you devoted still count—even if you’re still counting them. In a modern pop landscape that often skips the “in between,” this song invites you to linger.
If you press play now, listen for the spaces between the lines. Listen for the heart rate, the silence, the hold. And know: you didn’t just lose someone—you lost someone who never chose to stay. And that matters.