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It was Thanksgiving weekend. My boyfriend and I were browsing the paintings at the Museum of Modern Art. I wore the kind of dress a woman wears when she’s not interested in the artwork. From there, our relationship took off.

Ferdinand lived in Fort Greene and was going to art school. I met him at a coffeehouse when we were hanging out with friends. He sketched me into his life, and I wanted to be the model girlfriend. On New Year’s Eve, we drove to D.C.—where a close friend of his was throwing a party with her husband in their new house.

I had just turned 40 and he was 32. Everything was day-by-day with him: his plans for the future, and where he wanted to live. His goal was to move to San Francisco and work on an art magazine. Though I had put down roots in Brooklyn, I imagined myself joining him there.

He was my first serious boyfriend. I wanted to get closer to him, yet was hesitant. I went on the birth control pill just to be safe. We never had sex and in a way, I was glad. One day in April, I told him I wanted to move out of my apartment.

He said, “We could live together.”

Four weeks later, he told me he found a job in San Francisco, and would be moving there when he graduated in June.

Having sex with him wouldn’t have changed this outcome, or changed the person he was. My friend Stella observed, in response to one of my e-mails, “You are driven, and he seems like more of a drifter who is trying to find some road.”

On our last night as boyfriend and girlfriend, we ate dinner at Banana Leaf, amicably talking about the weather of our lives. He said, “You’ve recovered, and I have a way to go.” He told me it wasn’t a good idea for me to pack myself up and change habitats because I had created something solid here.

We ended up in my apartment where he spied the manuscript of my memoir. “Let me edit it for you,” he suggested.

After he left, giving me a sweet kiss, I went to the computer and emailed him the manuscript. I slid a U2 CD into the disc player and spooned up some Ben & Jerry’s mint chocolate ice cream.

It was for the best, but that didn’t stop me from crying. To console myself, I dialed the 800 number on the shoe catalogue that came in the mail and ordered five pairs. Why not, there was a sale.

Feeling a little better, I checked my messages and saw that Ferdinand received the memoir. He wrote, “Yours is a book that needs to be published.”

It will take time for me to heal from this loss. Maybe when I do, he and I can be friends, or have a professional relationship. For now, I will honor my grief, and treasure the tears. I don’t regret the time I had with him.

Love and loss are two sides of the same coin, invested with emotional currency. Those of us in recovery deserve to be in relationships and to experience intimacy even though it often comes at a cost. I was able to deal with the breakup without breaking down.

Ferdinand taught me to let go of my inhibitions. He encouraged me to take risks. Though I already had a healthy dose, he gave me even more confidence. Secure in myself, I look forward to playing the dating game again.

What’s next? The burgundy dress lies in the closet just in case.