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.
Stella*, a Nairobi journalist, pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Ex.
Brian, huh.
I’ve replayed our story in my mind more times than I’d like to admit, each memory looping like an old song that refuses to fade.
It began with intensity: the long calls that stretched into the night, the grand gestures that felt almost cinematic, the way you made me believe I was the only person who mattered. You made love feel effortless, safe, certain, and real.
You walked into my life and saw me in ways I hadn’t been seen in years. I still remember that night at Groove, how your words flowed with ease, how your presence felt steady, deliberate.
You said all the right things and showed up in all the right ways, at least in the beginning. For a while, I believed I had finally met someone who meant every word they said. But with time, the truth began to show, you were never here for the long run.
You love-bombed me, Brian, for an entire year. You built me up with promises and affection, only to retreat into silence. And when you finally disappeared, it wasn’t just absence—it was betrayal.
After everything we shared, you vanished as if none of it had weight, as if I were just another passing chapter. I kept asking myself what went wrong, was I too much, or not enough? But the truth is clearer now: you chose to walk away rather than face honesty. You chose the easy way out, ghosting me instead of offering the dignity of a conversation.
I won’t lie—it hurt. The silence echoed louder than any argument could. For a long time, I blamed myself, waiting for your message, hoping it was all a misunderstanding.
But each day without a word became its own answer. Your silence revealed what your words once hid: you wanted control, not connection. You wanted to feel desired, not to build something lasting.
I loved you, Brian. I won’t pretend otherwise. I cared deeply, showed up fully, and gave you the best parts of me. You, on the other hand, offered half-truths wrapped in temporary affection.
You made me believe in something that only existed because I wanted it to. And that’s what stings the most, realising the person I fell for was a mirage, someone skilled at saying the right things without meaning them.
But this isn’t a plea. I’m not writing to win you back or to make you feel remorse. I’m writing to let go. To free the weight of what was and accept what is.
You broke my trust, but I’ve been rebuilding, slowly, steadily, piece by piece. I’ve learned that love shouldn’t feel like confusion, or like waiting for someone to care enough to stay.
So this is where I lay it all to rest, not out of anger, but acceptance. You were a chapter I needed to read to understand the kind of love I truly deserve.
I won’t carry resentment, only lessons. You taught me how to choose myself, even when it hurts. So goodbye, Brian. Not with bitterness, but with grace.
I’m finally free to walk away with both clarity and peace.
(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.
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