John

The first time we met was in the back of a grey Pontiac Grand Am. An effort to hook up my roomate and his friend resulted in me nearly sitting on his lap, squished into a seat with three other guys. I recognized his face.
"You're John, right?"
"No. Brandon. And you're Julie."
There was no question.
He knew my name and I didn't know his.
I felt like an ass.
After all, it was my job to know names.
We didn't talk much for the rest of the night.
Turns out he didn't even know it was my job to know names.
We met up again a week later. We talked for hours. My friends called to me from a table across the bar. I didn't move.
The next three months were a blur of coffee dates and conversations that would last throughout the night. I've never skipped so much class in my life. I needed sleep.
The day that he moved I cried. He left, then came back, then left, then came back.
"If you leave I'll quit crying," I said. He did.
Every weekend turned in to every other weekend and then occassionally once a month. It was hard. It was more than hard. It was almost the end.
We came back together and as I moved my stuff in to an apartment half an hour away I questioned whether or not I had made the right decision. What followed were 3 months of plays and movies and dinners and knowing I could sleep next to him if I chose to. It was good for me. It was good for us.
Today what the future holds for us didn't matter. I was brought back to the place that we met and I couldn't help but smile. That was the best car ride I've ever taken.