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.
Karanja, a credit analyst, pens this week’s heartfelt Letter to My Ex.
Dear Kelen,
I am writing to you regarding a matter of some importance, urgency and, frankly, unfinished business.
Before you panic, no, I am not writing to reopen old arguments, question your life choices or suggest that we should try again. I have accepted that we are over. What I have not accepted, however, is that my hoodie is.
Yes, my hoodie.
The grey one. The one you borrowed that evening and somehow never returned. The one that began as an innocent piece of clothing and ended up becoming one of the longest-running casualties of our relationship.
It is strange how relationships begin. Ours did not arrive with a dramatic soundtrack or some grand declaration that this was going to become a story worth telling. We met at a church event, in circumstances that, at the time, seemed completely ordinary. I remember you being there, doing your thing, and me thinking there was something about you that made me want to know more.
You probably did not notice me thinking that. I was trying to play it cool, which is one of those things men do when they are interested in a woman and have decided that looking uninterested is somehow attractive.
Somehow, conversation started. Then there was another conversation, then another. Before long, we had moved beyond the polite exchanges people have when they are still pretending they are simply being friendly. We began finding reasons to talk, even when neither of us had anything particularly important to say.
There were the messages that started innocently enough and somehow survived long into the night. Some jokes made no sense to anyone else but had us laughing until we could barely explain what was funny. There were plans that began as 'maybe we should…' and eventually became 'What time are you coming?'
That was how it progressed, quietly and almost without permission.
At some point, seeing you became part of my routine. I knew the little things about you: the moods, the expressions, the stories you repeated without realising you had already told them to me. You knew mine too. You knew when I was pretending not to be annoyed, when I was actually annoyed and, most importantly, when I was hungry and therefore not the person with whom to begin a serious argument.
We had good days, ridiculous days, days when we could spend hours together and still find something to talk about on the way home. We also had those moments when two people who care about each other discover that caring does not automatically make everything easy.
And somewhere in all of that, there was the hoodie. I still remember you wearing it.
It had started innocently. You were cold, I had a hoodie, and I made the mistake that countless men before me have made: I handed it over without first establishing a legally binding return date.
At the time, I thought I was being thoughtful.
“Take it,” I probably said. Those two words have haunted me ever since.
Because once you wore it, something changed. It stopped being my hoodie and became your hoodie that I happened to have purchased
It appeared in photographs, it appeared on casual days, it appeared when you were going somewhere and apparently had nothing to wear. At some point, asking for it back began to feel less like retrieving clothing and more like attempting to repossess property from someone who had already established squatter's rights.
I let it go because we were together. That was my first mistake.
The relationship continued, with its laughter and disagreements, its good moments and difficult conversations. Like most couples, we had things we understood beautifully and things we could never quite get right. There were moments when I thought we had figured each other out, followed by moments that reminded me that people can love each other and still arrive at different conclusions about where they are going.
Eventually, the conversations became harder, and the silences lasted longer.
The things we once laughed about sometimes became things we argued about. What had once felt effortless began requiring explanations, reassurances and conversations that seemed to leave both of us more tired than when they started.
I suppose that is the part of the story neither of us expected when we first met.
Nobody begins a relationship thinking about the ending. When you are happy, you are simply happy. You make plans, you create memories, you assume there will be more of them.
But there came a point when we both had to acknowledge what neither of us wanted to say: perhaps we were no longer moving in the same direction.
Breaking up was not some dramatic scene involving flying plates, slammed doors and neighbours peering through curtains. It was, in many ways, quieter than that. Two people who had once been important to each other reached the difficult understanding that continuing was no longer making either of us better.
And so we ended.
I have made peace with that.
I have accepted that some stories are meant to have endings. I have accepted that the person you once imagined beside you can eventually become someone you remember fondly from a different chapter of your life.
What I have not accepted is the continued disappearance of my hoodie.
Kelen, surely we can be adults about this.
I am not asking for the relationship back; I am not asking for an explanation of where things went wrong. I am not asking for one last conversation over coffee where we promise to remain friends and then spend the next three months pretending not to check each other's social media.
I am asking for my hoodie.
You have had it long enough to establish emotional attachment, but not long enough to establish ownership.
So, consider this my final and completely unreasonable-looking-but-actually-very-reasonable legal notice.
I have accepted that we are over; I have not accepted that my hoodie is.
Please return it, preferably washed.
And if it no longer fits because, after all this time, you have somehow incorporated it permanently into your wardrobe, I am willing to negotiate.
After everything we went through, the least we can do is end things with one successful recovery operation.
Yours, formerly,
Karanja
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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