I moved on — and I didn’t need to announce it.”

I didn’t expect to meet someone like Brian at a baby shower, of all places. But there he was — tall, unbothered, in faded jeans and a crisp white shirt, sipping his soda like he had all the time in the world. We both reached for the same plate of samosas, laughed, and that was it.

He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t flood my texts with sweet nothings or try to impress me with money he didn’t have. He asked about my dreams, not just my day. He remembered my sister’s name. He noticed the way my voice dipped when I talked about my father. And when I told him I blog about broken hearts, he smiled and said, “Let’s hope I don’t end up as a post.”

For a while, it was beautiful. Mornings with long voice notes. Late-night conversations that blurred into 3 a.m. laughter. He’d randomly pop by my house in South B with street food and say, “I thought you might be hungry… and bored.” We’d sit in my small kitchen, talking about everything — his mother, who passed when he was 14; my fear of losing people I love; how we both hated politics but somehow always ended up debating them.

And then there was the night he took me to Ngong Hills. It was windy and quiet, and I was cold. He offered me his hoodie, and in that moment, I felt so safe it scared me.
“I’ve never dated someone like you,” I whispered.
He looked at me and said, “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

I believed him.

But then, slowly — too slowly for me to even notice — he began to drift.

He still texted. Still called. But something was missing. The warmth. The weight behind the words. He became more careful with his affection, like he was trying not to leave fingerprints. Our Sunday walks stopped. His “I miss you” texts turned into quick check-ins.

I brushed it off at first. Maybe he was just busy. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe I loved too hard, too fast.

But then came the night I went to his apartment without calling ahead — something I’d done before. I had cooked his favorite pilau and just wanted to surprise him.

I stood outside his door, holding the food, knocking.

Nothing.

I called. No answer.

His car was parked outside. The lights were on. The curtains drawn.

After a few minutes, the door opened. Not Brian.

A woman. Towel wrapped around her, eyes wide.

We stared at each other, both of us piecing together the confusion in real time.
Then Brian appeared behind her. Shirtless. Eyes tired. Voice flat.
“Masha… I thought I told you I needed space.”

I don’t remember walking away. I don’t remember what happened to the food.

What I do remember is the Uber driver asking if I was okay, and me smiling, shaking my head, and saying, “I guess he will end up in a blog after all.”

But I didn’t write about him. Not immediately.
I couldn’t.

Because the betrayal wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Personal.
It wasn’t just that he was with someone else.
It was that he let me believe I still had a place in his life — long after he had made space for someone new.

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to hate him.

I wanted to text. To call. To scream.

I typed the message several times:

> “I wasn’t looking for perfect. I was just hoping for honest.
You could’ve told me.
But I guess pretending was easier.”

I never sent it. Not because I didn’t want him to read it — but because I didn’t want him to think he still held that kind of power.

Instead, I picked up the pieces. Quietly.

I took long walks again — not with him, but with myself.
I bought new curtains. Got a tattoo. Took a solo trip to Naivasha and ate cake by the lake with strangers who didn’t know my story.
I wrote again. Not about him. About me.
I re-learned how to fill my own silence.

And sometimes, in the dead of night, I still think about that message.
Still wonder what would’ve happened if I hit send.

But healing doesn’t always come in confrontation.
Sometimes, it comes in the not saying.
The choosing peace over proof.
The silence that says, “I moved on — and I didn’t need to announce it.”