Last September feels very far away. An entire year away. Almost exactly twelve months, approximately forty-eight weeks, three hundred-sixty-four days. One seventeenth of my life! And in those passing days, I learned about distances. Great canyons between people, caverns of hurt, deep voids made of dark pain. The kind of distances that make it seem that the person you should be closest to feels miles away. Or the closing space as you start a new friendship, the crushed feeling of romance, attachment of best friends, awkward knowledge about your former boyfriend or girlfriend--that you still hang out with. Impossible distances. Ones that, to people our age, appear to be infinite and consistent. We conjure them into large walls and fortresses so that our pain seems smaller. We move farther and farther away from what hurts us because anguish is so consuming and—good heavens—we wouldn’t want to deal with our emotions. We just want to get them out of the way and get on with our lives, pretending it never happened. But in all honesty, most of these expanses of space are only in our minds, and can easily be widened or lessened.