I thought that our little movie-date would answer more questions then it would raise, but the most meticulously formulated plans often prove ill-conceived in hindsight.

I needed to prove that we could be together, existing purely as friends. I wanted to show that the world wouldn�t end in a black vortex of passion if we found ourselves in the same room. We could be casual, carefree and plutonic, accepting our distance rather then bemoaning it.

We could do this.

I went back to my life in New York and over the course of the next few weeks, my intension seemed to become less and less clear. Was I trying to prove this to her, or to myself?

Any good trial lawyer understands never to ask a question without already knowing the answer. Somehow, I assumed that she just needed to see me in person to put all those desires behind her. Somehow, I assumed that if we saw each other again, it would take some of that pressure off of this idealized notion of perfection. I hoped that a little reality might temper this semi-fictional long-distance �thing� we had going on.

But in the coming weeks, she only thought about me more often and with greater longing. I became the book ending thought to begin and end her days. Her love solidified like concrete inside her heart, a painful and heavy reminder of unrequited emotion.

A signpost, marking the three hundred miles towards true love. This way to New York City.

How crazy could this get? I find myself cowering under this shadow of grave responsibility almost daily. I�m tearing myself up at night because some girl is in love with me and I can�t be next to her. And it�s not because I�m lonely. It�s not because I�m tortured with unrequited desire. It�s not because I can�t be with her. It�s killing me because she�s in pain and I love her.

...and I love her.

And that�s no surprise really. I told her many times before that I loved her, and every time it was true. But things are different now, complicated. And the more I think about that, the more I question myself.

Have things really changed, or have I changed?

Again, I ask a question to which I don�t quite know the answer.

All the while, I�m getting nightly calls from Gretchen. Drunken messages of love, tear-soaked sob fests, and fearfully veiled cries of need.

I start working on an off-Broadway show. Lighting design for a casual friend�s theater company. Between the regular job and this side project, my workload is suddenly doubled, but it doesn�t seem to impede my thoughts. I find myself picking apart this pseudo relationship with all the brute fury I typically reserve for insomnia-fueled self-analysis marathons.

I dissect all the reasons why it can�t work out. I live in New York, and she is terrified of tunnels and subways. She lives in Baltimore and moving to Baltimore would be career-suicide for me. She has no interest in having children and I�m hoping to start a family someday.

We�re not even sleeping together and I�m already thinking about children. I�m not exactly sure anymore which one of us is supposed to be �the crazy one� anymore.

In spite of my logistical fears, the off-Broadway show goes smashingly well. Amid my many hours between the theater and the various after parties, one cast-member�s infatuation with me becomes more apparent and invasive.

When exactly did I become the cat�s meow?

Most nights end with me shrugging off her affectionate hugs so that I can go home and call Gretchen.

Everyday, I tell myself that something needs to be done. I call to see how her day went and I tell myself that this isn�t healthy for her. I call to check on her emotional state and I curse myself for lacking the strength to resist her charm.

It is an unfortunate position to be both illness and cure to a person, and the duality imparted is terribly taxing on the heart.

And then one night, after a particularly drunken swordfight with Jim Beam, I black out and call her up at three in the morning. Unhindered by my logical inhibitions and all my real-world worries, I sit there and tell her how awesome she is and how much I love her.

The next morning, she is floating on a cloud of air and I can�t remember a thing. I don�t think my signals get any more mixed.

Her emotions are coming to a head, and I sense within her the need for something explosive: be it bang or fizzle, her fuse is lit.

We both see it standing there between us, but is it a barrier or a signpost?

Three hundred miles towards true love, this way to New York City.