There are moments in life when silence weighs more than words, when the world around you continues in its usual noise, yet your heart withdraws into a quiet place of its own. That was the feeling on the morning I watched the girl I once hoped to marry, Hawesidi, walk down the aisle with another man.
It had taken days of thinking, weeks of wrestling with myself, and months of pretending I had healed to finally accept the invitation. I didn’t want to go. My heart resisted, my memories resisted, even my breath resisted. But sometimes the only way to free yourself is to face the truth closely, even when it stings like ocean salt on a fresh wound.
The sun was gentle that morning, its rays slipping through the small openings between the palms, scattering gold across the church compound. The place was full of colour, women in bright vitenge, men in crisp shirts, children running around barefoot, the kind of joy that weddings gather without asking.
And there I stood. Half guest, half ghost.
Some relationships leave an imprint not because they lasted long, but because they were real in the simplest, purest form. Ours was like that, quiet laughter, long walks under cashew trees, the kind of companionship where silence felt like a shared language.
We had once dreamed of a life together. We had even chosen a name for the child we imagined we would one day hold. We had looked at life as if it were a road we would walk side by side.
But the truth is this: love alone is not always enough. Timing, readiness, dreams, and fears- these things matter just as much.
She wanted marriage sooner than I understood. She wanted certainty when I was still learning how to carry the weight of my own life. She needed a partner ready to build a home, and I was a man still building himself. And in the gap between those needs, love slowly cracked.
We went our separate ways, though my heart remained stubborn for much longer.
Months passed. Then a year. Eventually, she found someone ready in all the ways I had not been. And when she told me she was getting married, I said the only words that made sense for someone who truly wanted her happiness:
“Get married. Be happy. Let my heart be free.”
I thought saying it would release me from the ache.
It didn’t.
Not immediately.
Inside the church, the flowers were white and pink, arranged in careful patterns that made the whole place feel soft, almost dreamy. The choir was humming a slow melody that made the air feel holy. Guests whispered in excitement; relatives held hands; mothers smiled knowingly. Everything looked like joy, sounded like joy, breathed like joy.
Then the music changed—the special song chosen for the bride.
Everyone stood.
My heart trembled.
And when she appeared at the door, dressed in white, glowing like a morning star, I understood something: this moment was not mine. It belonged to her. It belonged to the man waiting for her at the altar. It belonged to the prayers their families had whispered for them. It belonged to the path she had chosen.
Still, a part of me cracked quietly.
But I kept my composure, standing there with a face that tried to be brave, swallowing every emotion that threatened to spill. I could feel the sting pressing behind my eyes, but I blinked it away. I could feel the tightening in my throat, but I didn’t let it break.
I had come to give her respect.
I had come to let go with dignity.
I had come because love, true love, sometimes means stepping aside so the one you care for can step fully into their own happiness.
As she walked past my row, I focused on the flowers in her bouquet, on the rhythm of her steps, on the delicate sway of her veil, anything to stop myself from drowning in the memories rising like a tide inside me.
She didn’t see me. Or maybe she did and chose not to look. Either way, it was better that way.
This was her day.
The vows were beautiful, simple promises spoken with trembling voices. The groom looked at her as though she was the compass of his life, the anchor to his hopes. And she looked at him the way someone looks when they finally find peace.
I listened to them speak their commitments, each word pulling gently at the loose threads still attached to my heart.
When her voice broke with emotion, a quiet ache passed through me.
But right then, something also shifted. Pain, yes, but also clarity. A soft, unexpected peace. It felt as if a door inside me was opening, one that had been shut for too long.
Also Read: Joy my heart
Love brewed in heaven does not always end in marriage.
Sometimes it ends in acceptance.
Sometimes it ends in the strength to wish someone well even when it hurts.
The reception was loud and cheerful, laughter, dancing, clinking glasses, jokes from relatives. Children chased each other around the field. The smell of pilau and roasted chicken filled the air. Music played, old coastal classics that carried the warmth of home.
I smiled when expected. I nodded politely. I congratulated the couple. I blended in like a shadow. But the real me, the one inside, was sitting quietly with a heart full of memories.
I kept everything bottled inside, letting it settle behind the ribs where unspoken things usually live. I did not cry. Not there. Not in front of anyone. Instead, I held my emotions gently, the way you hold a fragile object you’re afraid to drop.
And when I finally walked away from the venue, the evening breeze carried away something heavy from my chest.
Healing doesn’t arrive like dawn, with a sudden burst of light. It comes slowly, sometimes like a shy visitor. In the days that followed, I woke up with less pain. I remembered her with more gratitude than longing. I began seeing the future as something wider than the loss, something waiting to be filled with new beginnings.
I realised something important:
Loving someone deeply is not a weakness. Letting go with grace is strength.
What we had was real. It shaped me. It taught me tenderness. It taught me patience. It taught me to grow.
And although we didn’t end up together, the love wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t wasted. It had been brewed in heaven, pure, beautiful, meant to touch my life, even if only for a season.
Sometimes I imagine her years from now, maybe holding her child, maybe walking along the beach in the quiet evening light with her husband beside her. And I feel no bitterness. Only peace.
Because I knew her in a way that mattered.
Because I loved her in a way that was true.
And because letting her go with respect allowed my own heart to find freedom.
In the end, love is not always about keeping someone.
Sometimes it is about releasing them gently, with a blessing, even through your pain.
That is what it means for love to come from heaven.
That is what it means to heal.
That is what it means to move forward.