Every heartbreak has a story. “Letter to My Ex” invites you into the reflective hearts of people who’ve loved, lost, and grown—offering gentle truths, bold lessons, and encouragement for anyone navigating the aftermath of a relationship. These weekly letters are full of grace and grit, showing how endings shape wisdom and how the past still holds power to teach. From understanding closure to embracing self-love, each piece is a tribute to growth through love, loss, and lived experience.
Mercy, a businesswoman, pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Ex,
Have you ever opened a wedding invitation only to find your own boyfriend listed as the groom?
That thunderbolt of betrayal wasn’t a nightmare or a bad rom-com plot—it was my life.
It all began on my twenty-third birthday. A friend posted a casual photo of me on his WhatsApp status. A stranger named Amos saw it and asked for my number. My gullible friend Philip*, bless his chaotic soul, handed it over without a warning text. Moments later, my phone lit up.
The voice on the other end wasn’t just a voice—it was music dipped in honey. Not too deep, not too soft, but magnetic enough to make my heart skip like a scratched record.
Work kept me swamped, so our early chats were scattered. Yet he persisted. One day he asked where I worked; I hesitated, then told him. Before I could overthink it, he showed up. I was in my work uniform, hair rebelling in every direction, but the way he looked at me made me feel like the only person in the room.
From that first conversation, it felt as though we’d known each other for a decade. A relationship began and blossomed.
Amos’s mind was a beautiful labyrinth, and I wandered in willingly. We debated everything from politics to poetry, his thoughts sharp and playful. And Lord, the man was fine—fine like aged wine, the kind that ruins you for anything cheaper.
I remember the exact moment I realised I loved him. He was explaining an intricate bit of code. Tech jargon usually makes my eyes glaze over, but the passion in his voice lit him up like fireworks at midnight. I barely heard the words; I just thought, My God, I love this man.
Our Sundays became sacred. Morning bike rides where he’d pedal ahead and circle back to check on me. Swimming sessions full of playful splashes. Food adventures that left us stuffed and laughing. After we broke up, I sold my bike because every ride whispered his name.
Amos had a rare gentleness that could melt stone. He always asked before touching me, noticed the smallest tremor in my voice, and somehow knew the difference between hunger and moodiness. With him, every wall I’d built around my heart crumbled to dust.
Then came that Sunday.
We usually rode from six to nine a.m., showered, and headed to church. But that morning, I skipped church and decided to shower at his place. Oddly, he hesitated. Amos never hesitated. My gut clenched. He never said no to me, but this day, he said no. I pressed on, and we finally went to his place.
When we arrived, I showered and slipped into his bed.
He busied himself on his laptop—a shock, since Sundays were his self-declared “no screens” day. That discipline had rubbed off on me; I’d grown to love the peace of an off-media day.
Curiosity pulled me from the bedroom. I tiptoed to his desk and glimpsed the screen: a photo of him sitting beneath a tree with a woman standing beside him. I didn’t catch the words immediately. We had a bomb-steamy session right there on the desk, and later he excused himself to shower.
I have never been one to snoop through someone’s phone or laptop, but that day, something told me to check. I opened his laptop and there it was—a tab where he was editing something. Those words—those cruel, glittering words—“We cordially invite you to our wedding,” stared back at me. I was dumbfounded; words refused to come.
My world tilted. My heart pounded like a drum in a thunderstorm. I called him from the bathroom and said I wanted to leave. He asked why, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain. I dressed in silence, holding back tears the way a dam holds back a flood.
He called after me, concerned, but I walked out before he even finished his shower.
The woman in the photo? Claire—his so-called ex. He’d told me months earlier they’d broken up because of distance. I believed him. Love makes fools of the wisest.
That night, I turned full FBI. I created a fake account and followed Claire on Instagram. Her profile was private; I had to wait for her to accept. After what felt like a month, she finally did.
And there it was: their smiling photos, traditional wedding outfits, their invitation with the date circled in March 2024. My chest burned as if someone had set fire to the air itself. This man, the one I thought was my one true love, had been planning a wedding the entire time.
After I left his place, he kept asking what was wrong before realising I had seen the invite. I told him I needed space and, since he respects such, he gave me space but kept checking on me.
Amos kept texting—“I’m here, my love, if you need anything”—each message twisting the knife deeper.
Hours later, he must have pieced it all together. My phone lit up in a frantic staccato of calls until I finally answered. His voice was tight, urgent. He said he was on his way to talk.
When he arrived, the air felt electric, a storm about to break. We sat and unravelled everything—the wedding invite, the hidden life, the months of deception. Words tumbled like stones between us until he finally went still.
“I love you,” he said quietly, “but I’m looking for someone to marry…and you don’t come close to that.”
The sentence landed like a hammer. He looked straight at me. “I’ve made my decision,” he added, voice steady, “and it isn’t you.”
In that instant, something inside me seized. My lungs forgot their rhythm. The room shrank; the air thinned. I couldn’t breathe. It was as if the world had tilted off its axis and left me standing in the wreckage of a love I thought was forever.
Two years have passed, yet I still wrestle with the ghost of us. I tell myself I should have ignored that first call. I build walls now, taller than cathedrals. And yet, if Amos walked through my door today, part of me fears I’d still let him in. That’s the cruel joke of first love: it brands you.
You gave me the world, Amos, only to burn it to ashes. I wish you’d simply told me the truth—that there was someone else. I might have chosen to stay as a second option, or I might have walked away, but at least the choice would have been mine.
Sometimes I relive that moment by the laptop and feel like I’m suffocating all over again. I don’t know if I will ever love anyone the way I loved you, although I want to fall in love again.
You were my fairytale and my cautionary tale—my sweetest dream and my sharpest wound. Even now, I’m still learning how to breathe without you. And the cruellest truth? It still feels as if you are the love of my life, Amos. I still love you.
Names have been changed to protect privacy.
Everyone has a story about love, loss, or heartbreak worth sharing. If you’ve ever wanted to say the things you couldn’t—apologies, closure, gratitude, or truths—to someone from your past, we invite you to write to us. Your real, heartfelt letter might offer healing or understanding to someone else who has been through something similar. You may remain anonymous if you prefer, but your words matter. We don’t pay contributors, but we believe in the power of shared experiences and emotional honesty. Join us in creating a collection of letters that explore love, lessons, and letting go. Be part of this movement.
Send your Letter to Ex to: [email protected]
