He'd stopped trying to bring her back.
She only came back when she felt like it, in dreams and lies and broken-down déjà vu.
Like, he'd be driving to work, and he'd see a girl with red hair standing on the corner –and he'd swear, for half a choking moment, that it was her.
Then he'd see that the girl's hair was more blond than red.
And that she was holding a cigarette … And wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt.
Eleanor hated the Sex Pistols.
Eleanor … Standing behind him until he turned his head.
Lying next to him just before he woke up.
Making everyone else seem drabber and flatter and never good enough.
Eleanor ruining everything.
Eleanor, gone.
He'd stopped trying to bring her back.

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