MissKissing
Wall

I Wrote My Ex a Letter and Never Sent It - Here's What Happened

·9 min read

Six Months After Our Breakup, I Wrote the Letter

Editor's note: This is a real, first-person account from a member of our community. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect privacy. If you'd like to share your story, write it on misskissing.com/write.

It was a Tuesday night. Nothing special about it—I was sitting on my couch, scrolling through my phone, when suddenly I saw his name on my Instagram stories. He'd viewed something I posted. Something mundane, like a coffee or a sunset.

And just like that, six months of careful healing came crashing down.

I wanted to text him. To message him. To ask him if seeing my name on his screen made his chest tighten the way seeing his name on mine just did.

But I didn't.

Instead, I opened my laptop and started typing. Not a text. Not an email. Not a message I'd ever send.

A letter. The letter. The one I'd been carrying in my chest for half a year.

The Backstory: How We Fell Apart

We dated for three years. Three beautiful, complicated, sometimes painful years.

He was my person. At least, I thought he was. We talked about getting a dog. Moving in together. What we'd name our kids someday (Riley for a girl, Jackson for a boy—I still remember).

But somewhere in year three, things shifted. We stopped talking about the future. We started fighting about small things—dishes in the sink, whose turn it was to plan date night, how much time we spent with our respective friend groups.

The big conversations—about commitment, about whether we wanted the same life—became minefields we carefully avoided.

Until the night he said, "I don't think I can do this anymore."

And just like that, it was over.

The First Three Months: Delete, Rewrite, Repeat

I wish I could say I handled the breakup gracefully. I didn't.

For the first three months, I wrote him at least once a week. Sometimes more.

Texts I never sent:

  • "I miss you" (deleted within 30 seconds)
  • "Did you ever really love me?" (deleted after my best friend read it and said, "Absolutely not")
  • "I saw your mom at the grocery store and it broke my heart" (saved in drafts for two days, then deleted)
  • "I hate you" (deleted, then rewritten as "I miss you," then deleted again)

I must have written a hundred versions of the same message. Each one desperate. Each one seeking something I couldn't even name—closure, maybe? Understanding? Proof that I hadn't imagined the entire relationship?

But every time, I'd hover over the send button, read it one more time, and then... delete.

Because somewhere deep down, I knew: Sending it wouldn't give me what I needed.

It would just reopen the wound. Invite him back into my head. Give him the power to respond—or worse, not respond.

Month Four: The Turning Point

Four months after the breakup, something shifted.

I stopped thinking about him every morning when I woke up. I went a full weekend without checking his Instagram. I laughed at something my friend said and realized I hadn't laughed like that—fully, genuinely—in months.

I was... healing?

But there was still something unfinished. This nagging feeling that I had things to say. Important things. True things. Things that deserved to exist even if he never heard them.

That's when I found misskissing.com.

I'd been scrolling through Reddit (r/UnsentLetters, specifically—I spent way too much time there in those months) when someone mentioned it. A platform for permanent, anonymous goodbye letters.

"Write it and enshrine it forever. Don't send it. Just let it exist."

Something about that clicked.

The Night I Wrote It: What Came Out

So there I was, six months post-breakup, laptop open, sitting on my couch at 11 PM on a Tuesday.

I started typing. And once I started, I couldn't stop.

What I Wrote (The Highlights)

I wrote about the good parts:

"You made me laugh harder than anyone I've ever met. You got my weird sense of humor. You knew that when I got quiet, I wasn't mad—I was just processing. You made me feel safe to be fully, unapologetically myself."

I let myself remember the good without asterisks. Without "but." Just the truth: There were beautiful parts. They were real.

I wrote about the hurt:

"You gave up on us without telling me you were struggling. You made the decision alone, then presented it as if it was inevitable. I would have fought for us. I would have gone to therapy. I would have done the hard work. You never gave me the chance."

I didn't sugarcoat. I didn't soften it to protect his feelings (he'd never read it anyway). I named the pain directly.

I wrote about the patterns I now saw clearly:

"You shut down when things got hard. Instead of talking to me, you'd withdraw, and I'd chase you, and you'd withdraw further. I didn't understand it then. I do now. You were scared of vulnerability. I was scared of abandonment. We triggered each other's worst patterns until there was nothing left but the triggering."

Therapy language. Months of unpacking with my counselor. All of it poured onto the page.

I wrote about what I learned:

"I learned that I'm capable of loving someone deeply, completely, without reservation. I learned that I can survive heartbreak. I learned that I'm stronger than I thought, and softer than I realized. I learned that I deserve someone who fights for me, not someone who gives up when it gets hard."

This was the part that surprised me. The part that wasn't about him at all. It was about me.

And finally, I wrote the goodbye:

"I hope you find someone who fits the person you've become. I hope you learn to stay when things get uncomfortable. I hope you're happy.

And I'm letting you go. Not with bitterness. Not with hope that you'll change your mind. But with acceptance that we weren't meant to make it, and that's okay.

This letter is my permanent goodbye. You'll never read it. And that's exactly as it should be."

The Moment I Hit "Enshrine This Farewell"

I read it over three times. Made a few edits. Read it again.

And then I did something I'd never done with any of the letters I'd written before:

I made it permanent.

I clicked "Enshrine This Farewell" and watched my words become immutable. Unchangeable. Forever.

I couldn't delete it later in a moment of weakness. I couldn't edit it when I felt differently tomorrow. It just... was.

And the moment it became permanent, something in my chest released.

I cried. Not sad crying—more like... relief crying? Like I'd been holding my breath for six months and finally exhaled.

I didn't need him to read it. I just needed it to exist.

What Changed: The First 24 Hours

Hour 1: The Lightness

After I closed my laptop, I felt lighter. Actually, physically lighter.

I know that sounds dramatic, but it's the truth. Like I'd been carrying a backpack full of unsent words and I'd finally set it down.

Hour 6: The Urge to Rewrite

The next morning, I woke up and immediately thought, "Did I say too much? Was I too honest? Should I have—"

And then I remembered: I can't change it. It's done.

That could have felt scary. Instead, it felt freeing.

I didn't have to obsess over it anymore. I didn't have to rewrite it for the 101st time. It existed, exactly as I meant it to, and that was enough.

Hour 12: The First Rippling Heart

Someone left a Rippling Heart (♡) on my letter.

A stranger. Someone I'd never meet. Someone who read my words and thought, "I understand."

And I cried again. Happy tears this time.

I wasn't alone. My pain wasn't unique. Other people had felt this too. They'd survived it too.

That validation—from strangers who understood—meant more than I ever expected.

What Changed: The First Month

Week 1: The Shift in My Thoughts

Within a week, I noticed something subtle: I wasn't thinking about him as much.

Not because I was forcing myself not to. Not because I was "over it." But because the letter had... contained it somehow?

All those circular thoughts—"Why did he give up? What could I have done differently? Does he ever think about me?"—they were in the letter now. Permanently answered, as much as they could be.

I didn't need to keep asking myself those questions. They'd been addressed.

Week 2: The Strange Gratitude

This is going to sound weird, but around week two, I felt... grateful?

Not grateful that he broke up with me. Not grateful for the pain. But grateful that I'd written the letter.

Because it proved something important: I could give myself closure. I didn't need him for that.

Week 4: The Unexpected Change

A month after writing the letter, something unexpected happened:

I went on a date. A real one. With someone new.

And for the first time in six months, I didn't compare him to my ex. I didn't spend the whole date thinking about what my ex would have said or done.

I was... present. Open. Ready to see this new person for who he was, not as a replacement for who I'd lost.

The letter had created space for that. Space for someone new. Space for a future that didn't include my ex.

What Changed: Six Months Later (Now)

It's been six months since I wrote the letter. A full year since the breakup.

And I'm... okay. Actually, more than okay.

What I Notice Now

1. He rarely crosses my mind anymore.

When he does, it's fleeting. Like, "Oh, he would have liked this song." And then the thought passes, no lingering pain.

2. I'm dating someone new (and it's healthy).

We communicate. We don't run from hard conversations. We're building something that feels stable in a way my old relationship never did.

I'm not healed because of this new relationship. I'm able to have this relationship because I healed.

3. I can look back with clarity.

The letter helped me see our relationship accurately—not through the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia, not through the bitter lens of anger, but just... as it was.

Imperfect. Real. Something I loved that ended. That's it.

4. I'm proud of myself.

For writing the letter. For not sending it. For choosing to heal on my own terms.

That letter—permanent, unsent, witnessed by strangers—gave me back my power.

Why Not Sending It Was the Best Decision

Here's what I've realized in the year since the breakup:

If I'd sent the letter, these things would have happened:

  1. I would have waited for his response. Days of checking my phone. Analyzing every read receipt. Giving him power over my peace.

  2. His response would have disappointed me. Even if he'd been kind, it wouldn't have been enough. Because I wasn't really looking for his closure. I needed my own.

  3. It would have reopened the door. A sent message is an invitation for conversation. I didn't want more conversation. I wanted an ending.

  4. I would have regretted the vulnerability. Sending it would have felt like begging. Not sending it felt like strength.

Instead, by not sending it:

  1. I kept my dignity. I didn't give him the satisfaction of knowing I was still thinking about him.

  2. I gave myself closure. The act of writing, permanently, was the closure. His reading it was never necessary.

  3. I protected my healing. No risk of him saying something cruel. No risk of him saying something kind that gave me false hope.

  4. I proved something to myself. I could heal without him. I could close the chapter on my own.

The Letter I Wish I Could Send to You

If you're reading this, you're probably where I was a year ago.

You're probably thinking about texting them. Writing them. Telling them everything you never said.

Here's what I'd tell you:

Write the letter. Write all of it. The anger. The love. The hurt. The gratitude. The goodbye. Don't hold back.

But don't send it. Make it permanent. Put it somewhere it will exist forever, exactly as you meant it. misskissing.com/write is where I did it. Maybe it's where you will too.

Because you don't need their response. You need to witness your own truth. To see your own words reflected back to you. To know that what you felt was real, even if the relationship is over.

The letter isn't for them. It's for you.

And someday—maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next month, but someday—you'll wake up and realize you haven't thought about them in days.

You'll go on a date with someone new and feel genuinely excited.

You'll see their name on your phone and feel... nothing. Not pain. Not longing. Just... nothing.

And you'll remember the night you wrote the letter. The night you chose yourself. The night you gave yourself the closure they could never give you.

That night was the beginning of your healing. And you did it without them.

Ready to Write Your Letter?

Your words deserve to exist. Your pain deserves to be witnessed. Your story deserves to be preserved.

Not in their inbox. Not in a file you'll delete. But in a permanent, anonymous space where you can finally let it rest.

Write Your Letter →

Anonymous. Permanent. Witnessed by thousands who understand.

Additional Resources

If you're still processing:

If you need support:

This story was shared anonymously by a member of the misskissing.com community. If you'd like to share your story, write your permanent letter at misskissing.com/write.

"If you're carrying words you need to say..."

Your story deserves to be witnessed. Share your farewell in a safe, anonymous space where your words become permanent monuments.

Write Your Story →