There are certain men I treat like nicotine. I quit them in daylight, swear I’m done, feel very healed and mature… then something hits my nervous system at 1:37 a.m. and suddenly I’m back in their messages, bargaining with myself and lying through my teeth about “one last time.” Bad Habit sounds exactly like that version of me, the one who knows it’s toxic, knows his energy’s drifting in a way that feels wrong in my gut, knows I’m volunteering for emotional whiplash, and still can’t walk away because the high feels too damn good.
SYRE sets this whole thing up with that glossy indie-pop pulse that feels clean on the surface and rotten underneath. It’s 121 bpm of shimmering synths and soft-focus guitar with these warped, Tame-Impala-adjacent textures bending around his falsetto. It sounds fun, almost light, which makes the desperation hit harder. This isn’t break-up-in-the-bathtub energy. This feels more “you’re speed-walking to their place at midnight, telling yourself this is closure,” even though you both know it’s another relapse.
From the first verse he doesn’t bother pretending this situation is healthy. “She has a t-shirt / with your face on her chest / ooh she want the best / and she can have it if you lie.” That’s not subtle. There’s already a girl literally wearing his image, already treating him like her favorite obsession, and he’s fully aware she gets “the best” version of him as long as he keeps the story cute. Then he drops “Are we runnin’ out of time” and you feel the panic underneath the bravado. I hear that and think about every time I’ve watched a man emotionally check out while still climbing into my bed, still telling me I’m special, still feeding me just enough to keep me hooked.
Advertisement
The second half of that verse twists the knife. Keys on the desk, someone in a hurry, another “ooh she want the best / a sticky habit every time.” That line wrecks me. He doesn’t call her a fling. He calls her a habit. Something he reaches for automatically, even when it’s awful for him. I’ve had relationships that didn’t feel romantic anymore, they felt procedural. Same fights, same tears, same apologies, same “okay but don’t leave.” You don’t even like the person half the time. You’re addicted to the pattern.
Then he fully puts himself on the stand. “Been through it all / seen better days / put you on a pedestal / thought you’re better / I’m such a mess / stuck in the past / what could we do / to make this habit last.” That is such messy, honest shit. He doesn’t pretend he was blindsided. He admits he elevated this person, believed in a version of them that existed in his head, and now he’s clinging to the nostalgia more than the reality. The line about making “this habit last” is the tell. This isn’t about love anymore. This is about chasing the hit. You’d rather stay addicted than face the withdrawal.
The pre-chorus/plea hits in that frantic, last-chance way that feels way too real: “So let’s talk / give me another shot / before you cut me off.” That’s the drunk call, the “can we just talk?” text, the desperate voice note you instantly regret. He’s begging for conversation, but what he actually wants is access. One more night, one more kiss, one more memory he can use to justify another month of chaos. Therapy is expensive; this is the discount version where you pay in dignity instead of cash.
Verse two flips the camera and gets even more twisted. “Is she the angel that’s been calling my name / said she’s from LA / and you can leave me anytime.” That’s the paranoia talking. There’s this new “angel,” shiny and distant, someone from somewhere glamorous who probably feels effortless compared to you and your shared history. And then that brutal, casual threat: you can leave me whenever. No promises, no safety. It’s that modern situationship shit where everyone pretends they’re chill while quietly spiraling.
He keeps feeding the metaphor with “The satisfaction just a second away / look the other way / the kind of habit that we share.” It’s all dopamine science dressed up as romance. Instant gratification with zero accountability. You know exactly what you’re doing to each other. You just keep choosing the rush over reality and hoping the crash feels softer this time. It never does, but hope is a stubborn little bitch.
Advertisement
The final section lands in that soft, pleading space that always gets me. “I wish you’d stay / the beat of your heart / it’s so insane / you left all your purpose / for better days / ’cause you’re my bad habit / I gotta have it / I wish you’d stay.” The production blooms around him here, synths stretching, rhythm pulsing a little deeper, and his falsetto rides right on top with this heartbreaking sweetness. He’s fully aware this person has abandoned any sense of purpose. They ditched who they were supposed to be, traded it for chaos and “better days” that never arrive. And still he’s standing there, saying out loud that this self-destruction is his favorite drug.
Zoom out and it fits where SYRE is in his life as an artist too. Vancouver-based, over a decade into this game, known for clean, smart pop that lives between underground cool and radio gloss. Blogs are already clocking the way he fuses mainstream hooks with something moodier and more thoughtful, pulling in threads you’d hear in Bieber or Billie and twisting them into his own indie-pop thing. Tracks like Feel U, Close the Distance, Denial already hinted at how deep he’s willing to go emotionally. Bad Habit feels like the point where he stops hiding the ugly parts and just throws the whole obsessive, jealous, delusional spiral into the song on purpose.
What I love is how honest it feels from a female listener side. He doesn’t sanitize his own complicity. He doesn’t pretend he’s a victim of this girl in the shirt. He owns the pedestal, the self-delusion, the way he keeps choosing this dynamic even though it’s wrecking him. That’s the kind of honesty that gets you blocked by your ex and applauded by your therapist. It’s messy and goddamn it’s real.
So yeah, Bad Habit lives in that sick little corner of your brain that craves the person who hurt you the most. It sounds pretty, it feels expensive, it slides down easy, and underneath all that gloss it’s whispering the thing most of us are too scared to admit: sometimes we would rather chase the wrong person forever than sit alone with ourselves.
