How strange it is, to have someone who was closer to you than anyone, someone who knew everything about you, and have them suddenly a stranger.

I barely talk to Jake, and when I do, it's all business — irritating business at that. He doesn't know my show opens in a week. He doesn't know I cut my hair shorter than it's been in years. He didn't know when I left the country, that one friend is having a baby, that another's cancer may be back. He doesn't know what my apartment looks like.

It's strange.

Granted, he wasn't terribly present for some time, but still — he was my partner. He was half of me. He's been part of my life since I was in 6th grade. Only now, he's not.

And people say, "Move on." And people say, "Why are you still talking about this?" How do you merely excuse yourself from what was once your life?

Ingrid Michaelson, in the CD she wrote whilst tromping about in my head, has a song called "Glass." And, of course, Ingrid always says it better:

"You could make my head swerve.

Used to know my every curve.

And now we pass and just like glass

I see through you, you see through me like I'm not there.

And now we meet on a street.

And I am blind.

I cannot find the heart I gave to you.

Sometimes what we think we really want we don't.

Sometimes what we think we love we don't."

What else is there to say, really?