It probably wasn't THE first thing you got for me. The first thing was probably dinner, or flowers...after that, but before the earrings at three months, and the necklace at six, there was the book.

It was one of our first whole weekends together and your roommate had just moved out, so we were enjoying having the place all to ourselves. Fooled around on the couch, necked in the kitchen, and used the big shower so we finally had a chance to get in at the same time. That night, you announced that you wanted to get me my first present. Being spoiled was still somewhat unfamiliar, but I tried to feel like I deserved it and went along.

You took me to the Barnes and Noble on the Third Street Promenade, then up to the Children's section, where you picked out The Little Prince. To tell the truth, I was a bit surprised. I didn't know much about the story, and it wasn't exactly what I'd imagined you had in mind. But you were so enthusiastic, and the gesture was so sweet, that the gift itself was insignificant.

After we'd come home, you took the book out and we glanced over it together. I asked you to read it to me, so we got into bed and you did. Whenever the Little Prince talked about his flower, his delicate demanding rose, your voice wavered. When he talked about missing her, about her dying without him, you began to cry. I didn't ask too many questions, only Why, and you told me, It's just so sad.

Inwardly, I was convinced that this book must have some significance to you, and I became even more afraid that you were still in love with the ex less than five months gone--that she was the rose, and having been unable to hold onto her made you feel that way. The idea was never too far from the front of my mind, that I was just someone to help you fill in the empty spaces.

My insecurity was so overblown that it became a running gag. I said I'd feel better when (and not before) I reached Senior Girlfriend Status. In this case, that meant surpassing the ex's two-year mark. With my all-time relationship record at two months, I didn't hold out much hope.

But I made it. Well, you made it, really. In any case, we celebrated months, then a year, and then we moved in together. We traded your futon for a pillow-top mattress. We had two and a half bathrooms. You took me home to Rhode Island for Thanksgiving.

I was terrified and thrilled to meet your parents. Because you were so close to them, making the right impression mattered more than anything to me. It was silly to worry so much, you told me, but I didn't believe you. I wasn't prepared for, just didn't understand, how loving and warm they'd be--there was never a moment I felt uncomfortable or unwelcome. I was elated. Your family--you--accepted me.

But by the next year, things had changed. Nothing you did was good enough for me. And nothing I cared about mattered to you. I was no longer able to see the future when I looked into your face, because the softness in your eyes was gone. We never talked about marriage, about children; every bit of straw I brought home to nest with, you carried back out again. We'd started the slow and final descent that took almost a year to complete.

In spite of this, I accompanied you to Rhode Island again the following Thanksgiving. This time there were fights; in our room at night, in the car, in the graveyard in front of an old farm. There was so much I wanted to try that you had no interest in. I built my first snow man by myself one afternoon in your mother's yard while you sat inside. I wanted you to be excited again, to want to join me, to have fun. But we could never get our timing right. By the time you'd concede to be happy, I'd have run out of patience. So the days went.

Your father had found a bond with me--poetry. He and I would retreat to his cluttered upstairs office and he'd rummage through boxes, finding piece after piece to share with me. Yellowed poems he wrote about your mother; poems written by hand, before either of us were born. Looking through the boxes with him, I came across a small, familiar face--The Little Prince. Surprised to see it, I flipped the pages and a folded piece of paper fell out. It was a love note from your mother to your father, signed with her maiden name. I tried to hold back tears, thinking of my own copy at home and how happy we'd been when you got it for me--thinking of how much we'd lost, how far off track we were.

We came back downstairs and you were sitting with your mother in the living room. Your father said Hey, you'll never guess what we found upstairs! He handed her the book and the note. You glanced at me, startled. Your mother told us, This is the first present your father ever gave me!

I could tell by your expression--so sad, almost ashamed, with your eyes wet--that you already knew this...but that I was never supposed to have found out. I looked at you and felt a thousand remorses, a thousand apologies, a thousand realizations. But I knew every last one of them was too late.

We lasted a few months after that. I wanted to try, I wanted us to find help. But you were a silent figure locked away in a room; you didn't want anything to do with it. I'd pushed you too far, too often, and I couldn't pull you back in any more. So I left.

When we split up your father said he thought I'd been using you. I felt inhuman. I'd lost your whole family. I'd lost it all...New England and creamed onions, road trips and celebrations, years and years. I got greedy, I chose the wrong door, and I ended up with the Donkey.

Now, for some reason, I remember only the good times. Instead of thinking less frequently about you, I seem to think of you more. I see The Little Prince on my shelf and I cry from a place that is so raw it still bleeds. I can taste it. Even now, when we've been apart almost as long as we were together, your book makes me feel like that.

But for some reason, I can't put it away.