And then we did. Or rather, he broke up with me. It was sudden and entirely devastating. I had just turned 30, and by some cruel twist of fate, this was my first time getting dumped. Don't be jealous. Waiting until your 30s to experience this is like adult chicken pox — it's much worse than when you’re young, and you don't get to miss school.

I launched into the usual breakup routine: stocking up on Kleenex, getting a dramatic haircut, wondering what that Catalonian winemaker I turned down a few months ago was up to, and keeping my distance from Henry in the weeks after the fallout. I missed him terribly. I missed his face, his words, our sex. I missed the freedom for my mind to wander and land on him as it almost always did. But most of all, I missed the friendship. We were best at the friendship. The relationship was challenging — much of it was long distance, and we had different mechanisms for coping with life's challenges. However, the friendship was solid. He was always there for me when I needed to talk something out; he was perceptive, intelligent, and loyal.

So after the dust cleared, I felt I was ready to reach out and regain that part of the relationship. And he was more than willing. This version of us was ideal for him, and he enthusiastically began to participate. First, there were “How are you?” texts. Then there was sharing of funny pictures of dogs. Then there were phone calls when one of us was killing time. Then there were phone calls when one of us was in distress and needed the other.

And then there was me, thinking about him all the time, and waiting with bated breath for the next contact. My therapist would ask if I thought this frequency of communication was a good idea, and since lying to my therapist is one of my more egregious wastes of time, I would reply with a resounding "Yes!”

In the end, it took the strength of our friendship to cut through the haze of our disparate intentions and give us both a reality check. I decided I was ready to see him in person. I told him I thought it would be good for us to talk face-to-face, since we had broken up while I was on tour on the other side of the country. He agreed, and I booked a bus ticket from my parents’ house where I was home for the holidays (stewing and moping, as 30-year-old teenagers do). The detail I had left out was that I intended to stay overnight with him in his New York City studio apartment. To me, this seemed like a given. We were talking every day just like we had done when we were dating; what was the difference? We didn't have to do anything… We could just be friends. Who shared a bed. Just this once. And maybe kiss a little. And maybe fall back in love. And…