If we were a movie, we would have had some kind of explosive ending. There would have been shared, bitter tears and matching rain. Some swelling violins and maybe a sweet, lingering kiss. It wouldn’t have ended like it did, with my shaky, uncertain voice stretching to reach your semi-concerned monotone across the telephone wire. Maybe the directors would have kept my falling for the enemy’s boy, or maybe they would have written ‘cliché’ all over the silly, doe-eyed scenes. I still think they would have murmured appreciatively over your small, romantic gestures, possibly would have even applauded at the look in your eyes when you kissed me in the rain.

But I’ll never know.

Instead, I gather all the remnants of your little ‘romantic gestures’ and migrate downstairs, away from my warm room and my mother’s “What are those?” The concrete basement floor feels pleasantly cool on my heels, and eradicates some of the headache this task is causing me. I drop the small pile into the same corner of the bed I perched on when I called you, and blatantly refuse to acknowledge any symbolism.

A short search yields a shoebox bearing a picture of a woman with a fierce expression on her face. The determination in her eyes makes me believe that she is running towards something bright, not away from her troubles. I like her already.

I open the lid and let the quietly crinkly tissue paper fall to the ground. I begin placing items in the box, trying not to give the memories time to wrestle their way back in. It’s a losing battle, and I know it.

The first thing is that guitar pick, hung on a random silver chain. My mind skims across the recollection of the surprisingly cool chain in your ever-warm palm, and the pick glowing like a lemon drop in the harsh sun. Then come the postcards from Maine, and Washington D.C. The blue-striped bracelet I would have loved last year. The crinkled picture of us, taken on a cloudy Friday in June. I give it a cursory glance before placing it on top of the rest. Nothing in the scene I know by heart has changed.

Lastly, by some miracle, your extra-large Old Navy sweatshirt fits into the top, creating a gray roof over the memories rattling around in the box. I hold it close for a weak moment, inhaling deeply. It is just as soft as I remembered, but it smells of dog hair and disuse. I ball it back up and replace the lid.

Carrying it like a prom queen that would rather not be seen transporting a stack of sci-fi novels out of the library, I cross the doorway of the storage room. I climb the step ladder left there from the last time some one decided to resurrect a lost love. At the last moment I notice an old sharpie marker languishing on the third shelf. Sighing, I remove the cap and scrawl “Summer 08” across the lid. Finally, I pick a spot between a ratty old trunk and a box marked “VHS”, and shove it back.

The hunter green stairs sway before my eyes as return to autumn, and blink back summer 2008.