The last time I saw Tony, we had just seen Volver before erupting into a tense, tearful conversation that eventually led to our break up. I remember getting out of his Acura, parked underneath a lamppost at my apartment complex's lot, and trying to walk across the road and into my apartment without letting any neighbors see that anything was wrong. I closed the door, sat in the darkness of my living room, and cried.

We had planned on remaining friends after that conversation in March, but with work, life, and emotions in the way, I both purposefully and accidentally let time slide. I avoided him because I wanted to get over everything, to not get frustrated with his childish antics anymore, to force myself to move on. I wanted to be friends, but couldn't get myself there.

July 2nd was the first time I had seen him in more than three months. He invited me to see him in Sweeney Todd, and despite my own hesitation, I decided that I really should do this for him and for me, especially because he had planned on moving soon.

I waited to see him after the show. I pictured how great the moment could be: he'd walk out the dressing rooms and see me across the lobby. I'd smile. He'd smile. He'd walk over, and we'd embrace just like old times, and I'd tell him how fantastic he was in the show.

But when I saw him, my facial muscles froze, and my intended smile became more of a smirk. As I tried to recreate the emotions I wanted to display, he came in my direction, hugged his other friend first, and then hugged me. Instead of the great moment I envisioned, I could only squeak out a tiny, whispered, far-from-full-voice "That was good." Although I had planned on asking him out to dinner after the show, he intercepted the request, asking his friend and I where we wanted to eat. I found myself stammering; my voice was low and mumbly. My heart pounded, and I worried that he might have felt the nerves when I hugged him.

He broke the ice, and we raced a bit on the way to dinner. He waved in his three-year-old playful way from his car to my car; I laughed. His goofiness was both a curse and a blessing; while it took things too far too often, it balanced my serious side well.

Our dinner conversation was great: smooth, fluid, far from the earlier awkwardness. But I was craving one-on-one time, so I asked him if he wanted to get coffee (despite the fact that I don't drink coffee). He took me up on the offer, which I was glad about. I was always most comfortable around Tony when we were alone. Even when I was with my friends, my time with him would never be the same as when we'd sit on my living room couch reading a play or lay in bed talking about absolutely nothing.

He dropped his friend off and came back to my apartment to pick me up. It reminded me of our first real date, still, I assert, the best date I have ever been on.

We went to the coffeehouse we frequented when we would have mornings free, and we talked about his big change of plans-- his move to California, attempts to get a job-- and the usual: movies, theater, and dreams. I tried probing for information about his current love life, but he wouldn't budge. He knows, though, that I'm not stupid. He probably knows that I’ve seen his G-chat comments about "Mike" for the past several weeks, that I've seen how Mike has become his #1 on MySpace, that I've lost my place in his top 20, that he left sentimental John Mayer quotes on Mike's message wall, that part of this big move to California was so that he could be there with him. I knew that I had been replaced and tried to make my replacement official by getting him to say it, but no, he wouldn't budge. Instead, I duped myself into believing that maybe if I talked him up enough, that if I paid enough personal attention, that if I made myself look and smell and sound the best I could, that maybe at the end of the night, I could get a kiss from him. Because everything else felt the same: his car, his voice, our banter, and when we hugged, I felt the same perfect fit of comfort I recall when we dated-- warm, with my cheek pressed against his fuzzy head of hair.

It didn't happen of course. I, stupidly, mentioned the time, and he decided it was time to take me back to my apartment. We pledged, as always, to hang out again.

Part of me worries that I’m clinging to a chance that we might rekindle whatever we had. Despite my frustrations with our personality differences, we had something. I still feel something. I don't like it, but it's there. I'm probably 60-70% over him, but only because I have to move forward. More than anyone I've ever dated, I think I miss him the most. I'm going to end up comparing the next set of guys to him. And I hate that because we weren't perfect. We weren't meant to be. And despite the logic and critical thought that told me that we couldn't stick together, our chemistry, like a drug, keeps me chained to what if? And that-- that's not an addiction easy to break.

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