Broken Vows

I never thought I'd write this. Not to you. Not like this

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Secret Affair

It started with a letter. A real one. Handwritten. No name on the envelope, just the words "Dear Ex" on crisp ivory paper folded twice and left inside my mailbox. No stamp. No sender. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the scent on the paper—cologne and guilt—was too familiar to forget. It was the same scent I once pressed into my pillows, thinking it was love.

You see, love isn’t always a crescendo. Sometimes, it’s a soft hum that disappears while you’re still swaying to it. And that’s how I met Mike.

It was two years ago, during a friend’s wedding in Mombasa. The coast was a dream that day, warm breezes rolling in from the sea, the scent of salt and joy mixing in the air. I was sipping mnazi (a milky, alcoholic beverage made from the fermented sap of coconut) juice under a white canopy when he approached, all charm and laughter. He wore confidence like cologne – thick, expensive, and intoxicating.

"You must be Laila," he said. "I was told you’d be hard to miss. They were right."

He had that grin, the kind that invited trouble but felt like adventure. We danced that night barefoot in the sand, the hem of my dress soaked by the tide, our laughter blending into the crashing waves. It was the kind of beginning you don’t question. Just magic and timing.

We started dating after the wedding. Calls turned to visits, and visits turned to weekends that felt like lifetimes. Mike was warm, attentive, the kind of man who knew how to listen and make you feel heard. He brought me books he thought I’d love, coffee when I was working late, and flowers just because.

But love has a way of hiding the rot. Like sugar in spoiled tea. You sip and sip until the bitterness sneaks up and chokes you.

The first sign was his phone. Or rather, how it never seemed to be where he was. Always left behind. Always on silent. I shrugged it off. Everyone deserves some privacy, right? Then came the meetings that went too late, the sudden trips upcountry, and the strange numbers calling at night. He laughed it all off.

"You worry too much," he said once, brushing a kiss onto my forehead. "You’re my peace, not my prison."

I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to.

We were almost a year in when Amanda, my best friend, came to me. She looked like someone carrying a dead bird in her hands. She didn’t want to show me, but she had to.

Photos.

Mike. Another woman. Candlelit dinner. Her hand in his. A kiss caught mid-frame.

"I followed them," Amanda whispered. "I'm sorry, Laila. I couldn’t let you keep loving a ghost."

I stared at the photos until my eyes blurred. Then I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because my heart had cracked and was trying to keep itself together with madness.

When I confronted him, he didn’t deny it. Didn’t flinch.

"It was just a fling, Laila. It meant nothing."

"Then why does it mean everything to me?"

He couldn’t answer. Or wouldn’t.

I left. Packed my life into boxes that smelled like him and hurt. I moved into a smaller place. Quieter. Empty. I told people I was fine, but my bed was cold, my meals tasteless, and my laughter rare. I tried to replace him with music, poetry, even other men—but everything felt like a poorly done cover of a song I once loved.

One day, I saw him at a coffee shop. He looked the same, only more polished. He was with her. The same woman from the photos. She was laughing at something he said, the way I used to. He didn’t see me.

That night, I cried for the first time in months. Ugly crying. The kind that leaves your face swollen and your soul wrung dry.

But healing is a slow rebellion.

I started writing. Not for anyone. Just for me. About our love. Our pain. My growth. I filled journals with pieces of him and burned them one by one. I stopped checking his socials. Stopped rereading old messages. Stopped wondering what I lacked.

The truth is, betrayal doesn’t say you’re not enough. It says the other person was too empty to hold you.

Months passed. The silence stopped being sharp and turned into calm. I painted my walls. Learned to sleep on the right side of the bed again. I started dancing again, barefoot, not for anyone—just for the rhythm of my own life returning.

And then the letter came.

No signature. No return address.

But I knew. I knew it was him. The words were careful. Regretful.

"I thought I could love you and still be who I was before you. But you changed me. You held up a mirror. I looked away. I’m sorry."

I wanted to scream. To cry. To tear the letter into a thousand apologies. But I folded it, placed it in my drawer, and wrote my own:

"Dear Ex,

Thank you for the love. And the lesson.

Goodbye.

Love,

Laila."

Except I never sent it.

I kept it. Maybe for closure. Maybe because I wasn’t ready. Or maybe because part of me still waits for him to show up at my door, rain-soaked and repentant, asking for another chance.

But I know I won’t open that door.

Probably.

Maybe.

I don’t know.

Love’s Illusion

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