The box he sent me is sitting alone on a table in my bedroom, and until yesterday it was empty.

All the little notes he's written me were jammed into the metal branches of my memory tree, along with the photograph of us with the Golden Gate Bridge behind our goofy, smiling faces, and the printout of the London Underground, onto which he'd scrawled, "You Are Here," before folding it in half and tucking our England itinerary inside to complete the surprise.

These things always brought me joy, and when I look at them, I feel warm. I remember how good it felt when he came for the premiere party, and extended his trip because he couldn't bear to leave so soon. I remember road-tripping to Santa Rosa, flying to London, spending Thanksgiving in New York with his friends, playing in the snow during New York's huge February blizzard, feeling him cuddle up to me, his head on my shoulder, and hearing him murmur that I've made his life better.

I can't do it any more. I can't keep looking at things that make me wonder. But I can't throw them out, either -- can't throw him out. Can't stop clinging to the hope that I didn't stop being special. Can't stop hoping our friendship wasn't an illusion.

So I came up with the compromise: I tucked them away inside the beautiful wooden box from Jordan that he sent me, along with a simple note thanking me for always being there for him, no matter how great the physical distance between us.

When I read it I was aware, even back then, that the emotional distance was about to swell, but I didn't want it to be true. And so I left everything up -- the photo, the notes, the casual mementos of a not-so-casual relationship. All these things that reminded me that I was special. That I had a friend for life.

All those things, reduced to a tiny pile in a box, an ornate hexagonal urn holding the remains of six months that I'm not ready to scatter.

I spent the rest of the weekend more or less elbow-deep in cleaning products, trying to scrape away the dust that's accumulated on the stereo I never use, since I never think to dust it on account of the fact that it's stashed out of my eye-line.

I bought a pair of $13 jeans at The Gap, mostly because they're a size lower than I currently wear, but also because they were only $13, and that justifies buying my umpteenth pair of denim pants. (I ignore the fact that they were probably on such deep sale because the size was wrong and they're really bigger than the label claims.)

I refilled the memory tree with photos that make me happier: Me playing Slamball, me with friends, me at The Cock Pub in London, me with the lager louts we met -- granted, those last two things wake up the echoes of Hunky Cameraman, but they're people and places I'll revisit in my life without him.

I walked to the Coffee Bean with Lauren, and all but sprinted back to avoid the homeless man standing in front of Agnes B on Robertson, screaming at the top of his lungs. He was ripping the glass a new asshole. Perhaps he was offended by the new summer fashions. He thinks pink is so played. He doesn't think those shoes match that purse. Whatever his beef, he proceeded to take it up with another store, and that's where we rounded a corner and left him, quickening our step lest he decide to rage at actual humans for a change.

I spent a leisurely afternoon in Santa Monica. I saw Down With Love and reminded myself that Ewan McGregor is hot and needs to live inside my pants.

I did all these things while he was still on my mind. I wish he hadn't been there, but he was, like he always is. I guess that's what happens when you're not the one to make the decision that it's over -- and when the one who does decide doesn't actually tell you anything. You can't forget and you want to; you want answers without asking the questions.

I know this will all go away, but in the meantime, it's all about busywork to try and clutter the day. The more I do, the faster the day goes, and then it's night again and I'm in bed, the weight of my hurt raging inside my head.

Know what? I need to get over it. I need to buy myself a ladder and climb it and jump off the other side and land on top of Ewan McGregor and have him be fine with it and not injured and eager to rub my back, and then be Over It. I'm tired of It. I can rationally say, "Okay, don't be ridiculous, get past It and get on with your life," but it's just so hard to actually do it.

It. Damn It.

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