I DELETED OUR WEDDING DATE FIRST.

My Dear Darling,

I have rewritten this letter in my head so many times that I don’t even know which version is the real one anymore. But I know where it began.

It was Saturday evening, November 21, 2020—the kind of day that feels ordinary until it becomes a lifetime landmark. I met you and something in me moved; not loudly, but like a door quietly unlocking.

I remember thinking: This is her.

Not the kind of “her” that fades after a few days of excitement, but the kind that settles in your chest like a promise. You were not just beautiful—you were familiar, in a way that made no sense, like my heart had been waiting for you before I ever knew your name.

We didn’t just fall for each other. We built. We talked about the future like we had already lived it. We didn’t plan like two people hoping; we planned like two people certain, as if the world was simply catching up to what we had already decided.

We talked about a home, laughter in the kitchen. We talked about children—four of them—and we even named them. Two young people speaking names into the air like prayers.

Sometimes I wonder if those names still exist somewhere, floating in the space between what was and what never became.

We wrote things down. We marked calendars. We made dates sacred. And the most painful part is this: we didn’t do it because we were naive. We did it because we were serious.

We chose a wedding date—November 23, 2030—because it was your birthday. You loved that idea. You said it was perfect. I don’t know if you remember the way we used to say “2030” with confidence, like it was a place we were already headed to—like nothing could stop us, and like life could never interrupt love.

Four years later, I left the city. Not because I wanted distance; I left because life demanded it: school, survival, growth. I thought I was building toward us. I didn’t know I was walking away from you.

And then it happened in the quietest, cruelest way. A few months after I left, you found someone else. You started ignoring my calls and texts. Your replies came late, then slower… and then one day, you went silent without explanation.

Not because he loved you more, or understood you better, or was more patient or kind. It was because he had more money. Because his life looked more stable than mine. Because he could do things I wasn’t doing. Because he could pick you up in his car, the car that, for me, still only exists in my head, parked in my imagination.

I don’t blame you for wanting softness. I don’t blame you for wanting comfort. But I will never forget how quickly you buried everything we built: all those adventures, all those names, all those dates, the wedding in 2030, and the future we used to live inside.

Gone.

And the hardest part wasn’t even losing you. The hardest part was having to pretend it didn’t matter. I had to bury it all. I had to delete all your photos—every single one, even the ones we took together—because keeping them felt like holding onto a wound that refused to close. I had to delete dates from my calendar like I was erasing a dead person’s birthday. I had to unmark the day we were supposed to become husband and wife in our imagination.

So, I moved on. Or at least, I tried. I found someone else, and slowly, I started filling the empty spaces you left—new dates, new plans, new promises. The four names we once whispered into the air… will now belong to another woman’s future. I told myself that was maturity. That was healing. But deep down, it was also grief.

But what goes around comes back around.

The man you left me for… left you too. And the reason was almost laughable in its cruelty: he already had a wife. He already had a child. You were a chapter he could close without consequences.

And suddenly, you remembered me and came back begging.

But the truth is—you would have never come back if he didn’t already have a wife. If he didn’t already have a child. If you hadn’t discovered it.

I would still be here in silence—no warning, no goodbye, no fight, no closure.

But I also know what you fear the most: being lonely. But it’s too late.

And your sisters, your brothers, even your aunt asked you about me—because they all knew: I loved you; I treated you well, and nothing had happened between us that could explain you leaving.

And your answer was always the same:

“Everyone has their own path in life. Please don’t disturb me. I have already made up my mind about that man.”

And I wish I could tell you that I didn’t feel anything. I wish I could tell you I was cold. But the truth is… I felt everything. Anger. Sadness. The sting of being your second choice. The temptation of revenge—the kind that comes dressed as forgiveness. Old memories rising like ghosts.

And now you are alone in the middle. Not with him, not with me—just in between, holding the consequences of a choice you made too quickly and a life you walked into without looking back. And I don’t say that with pride; I say it with pain.

But I’m scared of one thing.

It’s rare to find someone who will treat you better—with the care and love I used to give you.

But all I pray for is that God grants me this one wish: that you never end up living your life as someone’s secret, someone’s option, someone’s side.

From day one, I promised to take care of you, to support you emotionally, and to protect you in every way I could. And even though we are not together anymore, I won’t stop wanting good things for you… not until death does us part.

Yours,

The boy who once thought 2030 was guaranteed.

Written by

Deograsius Latimson

Deograsius Latimson Obalim is a Ugandan poet, a member of Uganda Poetry Society and a Student of Software Engineering at the Uganda Institute of Information and Communication Technology (UICT). His work explores the intersection of technology, humanity, ethics, and the future of artificial intelligence. Through poetry, he reflects on how innovation shapes societies, economies, and human identity, particularly from a Global South perspective. His writing seeks to question progress while preserving the human soul within the digital age.

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