I'm almost entombed here, amongst boxes, papers, and other scraps of the past that simply will not let me go. Having lost her convincingly, it's hard not to look back at the last four years as some kind of failure. Not so much professionally -- though of course there is plenty of room for that interpretation -- than in terms of actual emotional progress, where I can't point to anything meaningful.

Having successfully pushed myself away from everyone who ever had a kind thought about me, my days are spent hiding away from the outside world, and myself. There is a desperation in my attempts to fill up the never ending hours that offer themselves, where all of life's treats and mysteries are available, but seem profoundly empty as I think of partaking them just by myself. I don't know the exact moment where I cut off the last healthy friendship, but it was long enough ago that now even the suggestion of an outing is enough to get me through the week.

Oh, I will admit it -- she still occupies my mind far more than is healthy or helpful. I still can't quite figure out what lesson I'm supposed to take away from the whole experience. While I'm more than happy to flagellate myself for my many failings, on this particular occasion, I'm not sure I'd done anything so profoundly evil as to deserve being so cruelly denied an opportunity of happiness. I replay several key moments again and again, perhaps in hopes that through some sorcery I might go back to those times. And when on occasion she leaves me a short note, or just otherwise lets me know that I'm not completely out of her life, I have to work hard to suppress those giddy feelings of hope, that perhaps this is the restart that I've been spending all my idle hours conjuring. But, curled up in a cold room, speaking these words that she will never read, it's all too clear that this is just more fantasy. And I don't know what to do about it.