I never thought we'd be together forever, but I think I wanted us to be. He was the classic "one who got away," the Ashley Wilkes to my Scarlett O'Hara -- I knew he was awful for me, and hell, sometimes awful to me, but he had a hold on me and I just couldn't stop pining.

He wasn't even handsome, really. A bit pudgy. Weak arms. Shorter than me, though I didn't care. He had these blue, blue eyes. I told him once they reminded me of Paul Newman, to which he replied, "I love hot dead guy compliments." He always wore the obnoxious DC uniform, which I found very attractive when I first moved here -- blazer and jeans and those awful loafers every man wears. I liked him best in his favorite sweatshirt with rumpled-up hair.

He showed me this city when I moved here and really sort of showed me the world, which is a dangerous dynamic for a young woman and (even slightly) older man. He swept me around on his arm and I told myself I didn't like the way he showed me off, but in those pictures of us, my smile is so big and proud.

There were, however, deal breakers. He worked in an industry entangled with mine. We had little in common. He made me ashamed of my humble background, and even unintentionally, that's something I can't get past in a long-term relationship. He was often too prudish and traditional about sex, although I did like that he always remembered what I liked and took feedback very well. And it ended badly. He "up and left" me, as my mom would say. I hated that phrase, but it's never been more fitting.

I walk by his building every day -- it's right near mine -- and tell myself I won't ever go in again. When I hear something about his hometown, I immediately think of that loud accent in my ear and shoo the thoughts away. It's just another zip code, after all. His block is just another block.

And yes, I'm happy in another relationship now, but I'm still deceiving myself by using the past tense.

:(