A Letter to My Ex: The last kiss I didn’t know was goodbye

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.

Yvonne (*not her real name), a businesswoman, pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Ex.

Kamau, I’ve carried these words in my heart for longer than I intended.

For months, I’ve debated whether to write them down or let time quietly blur the edges of what we shared. But some people leave footprints too deep to fade, even when distance settles between them, and you are one of them.

I still remember the day we met, that spontaneous road trip that dragged us from Sagana to Naivasha and later to Nakuru. What began as a random escape with friends unfolded into one of the most unexpectedly beautiful weekends of my life. You, tall and dark with a quiet, puffed-up confidence, didn’t try to stand out, yet somehow you did.

That night in the club, as music pulsed through the room and laughter spilt like light, I didn’t know I was collecting memories I’d replay for years.

I remember the drunken blur, your arm steadying me when the world tilted, the warmth of your hand guiding me through the noise. The next morning, slow smiles, soft conversations, and shared silence that felt strangely comfortable. It was the first time I noticed how effortlessly we fit into the same space.

Then came lunch in Naivasha. Your gentleness. Your laughter. The way you looked at me like you saw more than I was saying. At View Point, with the wind threading through our hair and the horizon stretching endlessly ahead, we took photos I still cannot bring myself to delete.

You joked and called me wife, casually, playfully, and even though I laughed, part of me wondered what it would feel like if the joke ever became true.

Our drives became something I looked forward to, music low, windows cracked, your hand occasionally brushing mine, city lights streaking past like fleeting dreams. The hugs that lingered longer than they should, the silences that spoke louder than words, I remember all of them, too vividly at times.

And then there was the last time I saw you.

You picked me up from home; we met your friends, shared drinks, laughed like nothing would change. Later, we drove to where we spent the night, simple, quiet, unforced. Morning came with breakfast, a stop at your friend’s house, and then finally the drive back home.

I remember standing in the parking lot, air still, night quiet. You leaned in and kissed me. I didn’t know then that it would be the last kiss you’d ever give me, the final softness before the silent drift.

What hurts now is not the ending, but how memories ambush me in ordinary moments. A car like yours drives by; my chest tightens. I walk past your workplace or see your company name somewhere; a familiar ache rises, not from bitterness, but from recognition.

The calls thinned, the messages shortened, and somewhere between unanswered texts and thoughtful pauses, I realised I was holding on alone.

Yet even with the fading, I carry no regret. You taught me how affection can bloom quietly, without warning, and how it can fade just as softly, without war.

So this is not a letter of accusation or longing.

It is one of gratitude.

Thank you for the laughter and the warm drives home.

For holding me when the world spun.

For the easy silences.

For that last kiss that still lingers in the back of my mind, not as a wound, but as a reminder of something once tender.

You were a beautiful chapter, brief but meaningful, one I’ll always hold carefully, like a page I don’t want to tear.

Wherever life takes you, I hope you find peace, love, and softness.

And if you ever think of me, I hope the memory comes gently, with a smile, the same way mine does when I think of us.

— Yvonne 

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]