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.
Antony (*not his real name), a banker, pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Ex
I met Melissa on a Wednesday morning, in the queue for the staff lift, both of us half-awake, coffee in hand, mentally preparing for another day in the banking hall.
She worked in Credit; I was in Customer Relations. We weren’t friends yet, but we exchanged polite nods, the kind colleagues give before they learn each other’s names.
What warmed me to her was how she carried herself, calm, composed, never in a hurry, even when everyone else seemed to be running on panic. In a bank, where pressure is the default setting, that kind of presence stands out.
Our first real conversation happened at the coffee station. She laughed at a joke I didn’t think was funny; I laughed because she did. After that, mornings felt incomplete if I didn’t bump into her. Slowly, we formed a rhythm, small talk during breaks, shared complaints about system failures, and those sarcastic comments only bankers understand.
One afternoon, when the queue was endless and tempers high, she whispered, “If we survive today, I’m buying you tea.”
She did. And that tea turned into lunch. Lunch turned into a habit. A habit turned into something that felt like a beginning.
I fell for her quietly, then completely.
When we finally started dating, it felt natural, like continuing a conversation we’d been having without realising it. I liked how easy it was with her. We would leave work together, talking about everything and nothing, annoying clients, promotion hopes, and childhood stories. She made even the longest days feel lighter.
But somewhere along the way, something shifted, not dramatically, not suddenly, just gradually… almost politely.
I started noticing that I was the one holding things together.
I was the one planning our meet-ups after work.
I was the one suggesting weekend plans.
I was the one remembering the little moments she shared with me, her favourite smoothie, her love for quiet places, and how she took her tea.
Meanwhile, Melissa’s effort felt like rain in Nairobi, generous one day, completely absent the next.
She still laughed with me at work, still looked for me across the hall, but outside the office… she began to disappear.
Texts went unanswered for hours. Calls, sometimes for days. She cancelled dinner twice in one week, saying she was tired. Then she stopped suggesting alternatives.
I told myself she had a lot going on.
Credit can be stressful, with deadlines, loan approvals, and endless documentation. I kept giving her grace, extending patience, telling myself to understand.
But understanding can hurt, especially when it goes only one way.
Whenever she drifted, I moved closer, tried harder. I showed up, even when she didn’t. I kept giving, hoping she’d find her way back to the version of herself she used to share with me.
But the imbalance grew heavier.
I started feeling like a backup plan. Like someone she was comfortable with but not committed to. The more I poured in, the more I realised that she wasn’t pouring anything back. Her warmth became seasonal. Her presence, unpredictable.
Our conversations became shorter. Our calls disappeared. Our plans faded.
Eventually, I stopped pushing. She didn’t notice.
That’s when it hit me, I had slipped from being someone she chose to someone she tolerated.
The frustration that had been building in me slowly turned into silence. My silence turned into distance. And then, without harsh words or a final argument, we simply… ended. Two people who used to count down minutes to see each other became colleagues who barely exchanged more than a polite nod.
Around that time, management announced staff rotations. I was moved to another branch in another town. And just like that, the possibility of bumping into Melissa in the hallway, or meeting at the lift, or sharing those accidental moments that once meant everything… disappeared. Distance didn’t just grow between us; it became geographical.
I don’t hate Melissa. Maybe she wasn’t ready. Maybe she cared, just not enough. Maybe she liked me, but not in the way I needed.
But I learned something: you can’t build a relationship by yourself.
No matter how genuine your intentions are, love can’t survive on the effort of one person.
So that’s how we became exes, not with a bang, not with a dramatic goodbye, but through a slow, quiet unravelling. And with that transfer, life closed the chapter for me completely… on something I once believed could last.
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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