I’m writing this on Tuesday at 7:12 AM. I’m up an hour and a half earlier, not because I want to, but because the situation forced me to.
It’s been three weeks since he left.I haven’t eaten well for four days.
Tea sits cold in my hands, and I try to nibble on bread, but it feels tasteless, too much to swallow. Every part of me is tired, even the mouth I vowed would always eat, even in the worst of times.
I’ve been reading our conversations, still wondering how he left after endless promises to hold on, even when things got tough. He was my perfect companion. No one is perfect, but he was better than the ones before. We laughed over silly jokes, stayed up for hours talking through the night, took road trips that felt like adventures, and whispered plans for a future that seemed within reach. We were solid. Or so I thought.
We had the normal turbulence of relationships. I was prepared for the worst but still hoped for the best. He complained that I write too much, that I never gave him enough attention. He suggested I stop writing altogether. But how could I? Writing is my way of breathing. I write when I’m angry, bored, happy, confused—through every season of life. I write so much that some pieces never see the light of day. To ask me to stop writing is to ask me to stop living. He suggested I replace writing with videos, but I’m camera shy. I explained I was giving him as much time as I could, but he didn’t understand.
He didn’t cheat—at least not physically. He just woke up one day and left. He withdrew emotionally, became distant, saying he was overwhelmed with life, work, and expectations. Yet I loved him fiercely. I made peace with the distance, waited, and tried to hold on.I don’t cry loudly; that’s not my way. My pain is quiet. I bleed on pen and paper. My friends say I speak in half sentences now: “I thought if I…” or “Maybe if I…” dominates our conversations.
My friends have been texting and calling, reminding me I’m not alone, that it wasn’t my fault. But what if it was?
I scroll through my gallery and see us—smiling, laughing, living. I think about deleting the photos, moving on, but my heart isn’t ready. Deleting them feels like erasing the memories, and I’m not ready to let go. Not yet. If I delete them now, it feels final, and I still hope, against all reason, that it’s not.
I’ve been heartbroken before, but this is different. This is grief—the kind that builds walls and keeps everyone out. This grief is laced with shame. People think I should be over it by now. Some rush me to heal with words that sting: “At least he didn’t leave you with a child.” “You’ll find someone better.” “At least he left before you got married.”
What makes it worse is that he’s moved on already. Barely a month has passed, and we saw him on Instagram, laughing with a new woman in Mombasa. A soft launch, they call it. That’s the day my appetite vanished completely.
I want to hate him. I want to walk to the hotel he’s staying at and tell him he broke my heart. But it’s impossible. So many times, I’ve asked Christine if he truly loved me. “He loved you,” she says, “in his own way. Sometimes people love you as much as they’re capable of. Sometimes, that’s not the love you need.”
I know I’ll laugh again. I don’t know when, but I know I will. Through this pain, I’ve learned that love doesn’t always mean staying together. Sometimes, it’s about letting go and finding the strength to rebuild.