[...] He wanted, perhaps, for me to long for such letters from him, even though he was not a man who would ever write them—he wanted his desires to be the gift I was hungry for, and was furious that I was only thinking about myself, even though he was also only thinking about himself. Now, nearly two decades later, I understood the difference between loving a person and loving the idea of a person, and what you think that person reflects about you. My ex-husband and I had loved each other that way, mutually, both looking past the other’s reality, projecting our own fantasies off the other’s walls, not seeing what was right in front of us, or worse, seeing but not caring, both trying to wrest the focus back to ourselves.