I wish I could explain to him that I don’t want to think about her any more, but thinking about her is not a choice; that—even though Jen is no longer in my physical life—the room inside my mind that has been occupied by her for the last four years still exists. I want to convert it into a home gym or a meditation room or get in a new tenant, but I can’t. Sometimes I wake up and the first thing I think of is Jen, and I imagine the tiny version of her in a doll’s house bedroom in my brain and I’m comforted by Imaginary Jen who wants to keep me company for a little bit longer.
