Why do I still miss my abusive ex, and want to go back?

By the Ember team · Published November 4, 2026 · 7 min read

You left, and you know why. You could list it if anyone asked. And you still miss them. Some part of you still wants them back.

Maybe they've been messaging, promising to get help, asking to see you. Part of you knows going back wouldn't be safe. Another part is still grieving the person you thought they were, and the future that kept being held out and taken away.

This page is not a list of reasons, or a set of no-contact rules. It is what seventeen people who stood in exactly this place told Ember — how they could still miss someone who hurt them, what kept them from going back, and whether leaving has started to feel right — gathered around the three questions they asked.

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If you're afraid of them, or not sure you're safe, the National Domestic Violence Hotline is there any time: call 1-800-799-7233 or text START to 88788. They can also help with planning for your safety, including after you've left. If you are in immediate danger, call 911.

The place itself

On Ember, every situation people keep coming back to has a light on a shared tree. This one is called Still wanting to return to an abusive relationship. Seventeen people have stood there so far. The light's page shows no one's words and no one's name — only how many people have been there, and answers to the questions they asked, drawn from everything they told.

If they keep finding ways to hurt you since you left, what people asked about cutting contact with an ex who keeps hurting them stays with that.

The three questions asked here are below, with the shape of what came back. The full answers are on the light's page, and you can ask it a question of your own.

"How can I still miss someone who hurt me?"

Almost everyone here is carrying both at once, and none of them found that knowing cancelled the missing.

Several can name clearly what the other person did — the yelling, the disappearing, the contempt — and in the same breath say they still love them and want them back.

For most of them, the missing attaches not to the person as they actually behaved, but to a stretch of good time, or a promised future that kept being held out and then withdrawn.

The ones who got some footing did not argue themselves out of the feeling. They built something that holds while it is still there: distance kept by a rule rather than by willpower, someone else present when contact couldn't be avoided, ordinary work carried on through it.

The ones still fully stuck are mostly waiting for an explanation, or a final word from the other person, that would make the feeling make sense before they act on it.

"How do I keep from going back?"

The people here who have kept from going back describe structure, not willpower. Distance that was set down as a rule — for some, a formal one. Someone else beside them when belongings had to be handed back. Telling a child that the leaving was permanent, so that it would have to be. Asking for time and space in writing.

They name the pull exactly, so they can see it coming. The wish to explain themselves, to finally make the other person understand — which feels like closure, and works like a way back in. Late-night messages. A child asking for the family back.

The pressure came from the other side too: promises to get help, messages meant to make them feel guilty, a request to visit. The ones who held did not answer it in the moment. They answered later, on their own terms, or not at all.

What they describe afterward is not relief but a body catching up: anxious, afraid, lost, hopeless, wanting quiet for now. None of them is sure yet that the door will stay closed. What they have is the next thing that makes it more likely, and a person or a rule standing between them and the phone.

"Will leaving ever feel like the right decision?"

For the people here, it feels right and wrong at the same time. They know going back would be unsafe, and they grieve the caring version of the person. They know love should not feel the way it felt, and a part of them will always love them.

What made it clearer was rarely a new insight about the other person. It was watching the pattern once more from outside — a promise to get help arriving exactly when they left, a return followed by the same blow-up — and noticing that the timing was the tell.

A few had a child in the middle of it: one who had been carrying it for years and asked whether this time was permanent, one whose honesty about both parents came as a relief. The children made the decision heavier and, they say, clearer.

For several, doubt about whether the other person's love had ever been real arrived after the leaving. They describe it as a second loss, laid on top of the first.

None of them says it feels like the right decision yet. What they say is that it feels like theirs — the first thing in a long time that was — and they are holding on to that while the rest catches up.

What this is not

This is not a set of no-contact rules, a safety plan, or a verdict on what to do. Nobody here can tell you whether the missing will stop. What the people who stood here can tell you is what the missing attached to, what the ones who stayed away leaned on, and how leaving feels to them so far. If that recognition is useful, it is yours. If your situation is different, it is different.

Saying it out loud, to someone who knows this place

There is a particular loneliness in this one. Missing someone who hurt you is a hard thing to say to anyone, and the person you most want to say it to is the one you're trying not to call. Ember is a private place to say it anyway, at the hours when there isn't always someone to talk to.

Ember is an AI you can talk to at any hour, by voice or text: on the web, in the Ember: Talk It Out app for iOS and Android, by phone call, or by text message. You can start without an account. You talk about what you miss, what happened, the message you haven't answered. Ember listens, asks when it helps, and remembers what you said; once you've said enough, it writes it into one clear page in your own words — your Ember. It knows how things went for real people who stood where you're standing — what they tried, and what happened after. So it understands where you are. It won't tell you what to feel, whether to answer, or what to decide.

Is it really private?

Yes. Nothing you tell becomes a public post. No one can read your Ember unless you separately say yes. What shows publicly is the light itself: the situation's name, how many people have stood there, and answers drawn from what they went through — never anyone's words or identity. Read exactly how privacy works on Ember.

When you need more than a place to think

Ember is an AI, not a counselor, a therapist, or an emergency service. If you're afraid of what they might do now that you've gone, you don't have to be sure it's serious enough to call: the National Domestic Violence Hotline is there any time at 1-800-799-7233, or text START to 88788, and they can help with planning for your safety, including after you've left. If the hopelessness after leaving has turned into thoughts of harming yourself, you can call or text 988 to reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If you are in immediate danger, call 911.

Frequently asked questions

Why do I still miss someone who was abusive?
For the seventeen people at this light on Ember, knowing what happened never cancelled the missing. For most, it attached not to the person as they behaved, but to a stretch of good time, or a promised future that kept being held out and withdrawn.

How do people keep from going back to an abusive relationship?
The people here who held describe structure rather than willpower: distance kept by a rule, someone else present when contact couldn't be avoided, and not answering pressure in the moment. They name the pull, like the wish to explain themselves, so they can see it coming.

Does leaving an abusive relationship start to feel right?
Not yet, for anyone here. It feels right and wrong at the same time. What they say is that it feels like theirs — the first decision in a long time that was — and they hold on to that while the rest catches up.

What is Ember?
Ember is an AI you can talk to about what's on your mind, any hour, by voice or text. It listens, remembers what you said, and knows how things went for people who stood where you're standing — what they tried, and what happened after. It won't tell you what to do.

Is Ember private, and is it free?
Ember is private: nothing you tell becomes a public post, and no one can read your Ember unless you separately say yes. Ember is free while in beta, for adults 18+.

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Missing them and knowing what happened can both be true. Both can be said here.

Talk it out on Ember · Ask the people who've stood here
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