I'll tell you about the day me and my boyfriend got together.
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Me and him had been best friends for two years, since we were sophomores. He was my perfect guy, but of course I never told him that. A head taller than me at 6'1, well-built, messy light brown hair, good looks, strong jaw, green eyes. Funny, easy to talk to, cute smile, clever, sarcastic, polite, charming, desperately shy, mature, immature, sensible. Stud defenseman on the hockey team, destined for the big leagues. We shared favorite classes (Spanish + math), favorite music (hardcore), favorite books (fantasy) and favorite foods (pasta, pizza, sandwiches). He was one of those too perfect guys: chauvinistic to a fault, always worrying about me and not himself, overtly charming, wouldn't let me pay for anything. I hated that, but of course, I never told him.

We did everything together, pretty much to the point of excluding everybody else. We went paintballing and karting a lot, stayed at home to study and do homework, the cinema, the library, the mall. We went to see his dad and the Canucks play whenever we could get the tickets and the time.

I went to every game he played, wildly cheering on the rare occasions he managed to drag our team to victory, equally happy to console him when we lost (he always blamed it on himself). He rarely scored, but when he did the celebration always began with a smile in my direction. I pretended not to notice, but I always blushed furiously after he looked away.

Our houses were two minutes walk apart. We had sleepovers most weekends and even more frequently in the summer. The best times were walks in the park in the summer evenings, always talking about nothing in particular and laughing about everything, eating ice cream and fruit and cookies. We listened to the MP3 player he bought me for my birthday (he wouldn't let me buy anything for him). Tears sometimes fractured my vision; I had to pretend I was yawning whenever he noticed.

I cried a lot over him when I was alone. I cried over how stupidly he acted, I cried over how infuriating he could be, I cried over how perfect life was now, and I cried over how I might never be this happy again. Mainly, of course, I cried over how he would never be mine.

He got asked out almost once a week, it seemed. Every time a girl would come up to him, he'd politely talk to her for a while until she finally got the courage to ask him out, at which point he glanced at me and back at her and said "sorry, but no," looking genuinely upset, accompanied by some excuse of "I don't really have the time at the moment," or "I'm not looking for a girlfriend right now." Some of the girls were downright optimistic, but some could have successfully asked out Zac Efron. I usually spent the next few minutes probing him as to why he'd said no, to no avail.

I never got the courage to try myself. I couldn't take the rejection.
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Our last summer came. We'd graduated with As across the board. Naturally he'd won a hockey scholarship to UBC, but fussy grandparents had forced me to accept my place at Harvard. I'd cried for days, and his moral was shot through too. Too much distance.

We spent as much time together as possible: week-long sleepovers became the norm. I went with his family to Spain, and he came with mine to Toronto. Everyone from both families was miserable. Neither of us particularly enjoyed the vacations, but naturally he hid it perfectly. I'm not sure I did.
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As the summer drew to a close, we decided to have one last day together at the zoo. I spent the week leading up to it with a dry mouth. I knew this might be my last chance to say something before separation tore us to shreds, but I couldn't imagine a single way to do it without dying with embarrassment and fear (and that was if he said yes).

It was a beautiful day. After a week of pathetic fallacy (storms and grey clouds), the opaline sky was welcome. We met in the queue when he crept up behind me and hugged me tightly. I guess my only vague plan was to give him as many signals as possible and let him do the talking. Reflexively, I pushed myself back into his arms and closed my eyes, praying he'd notice. He didn't give any sign he had.

We wandered round the park for a while. We tried to concentrate on the animals, but the gravity of the situation was forcing our laughter and our heartbeats. The penguins were cute, the owls and panthers were beautiful, but what did it matter? I hid most of my tears from him, but he was too attentive to me to miss them all.

We sat down on a relatively deserted patch of grass for lunch. Naturally, he'd made the sandwiches and done all the preparation. I was about to chide him for this, as I would have done normally, but I realized it wasn't the time. It wasn't the time for a lot of things.

He finished his sandwiches first and stood up, and vaguely mentioned him going to find some dessert, and for me to wait here until he got back. Five minutes later he returned with some candy floss (my favorite). I almost wondered where he'd got it from, but the petrified look on his face made me think again.

He lay down on the grass, on his back, and closed his eyes. I lay down as close to him as I could without seeming rude. I sensed him breathing heavily. He was just holding the candy floss. I moved to ask him if he was ill, when he propped himself up on his elbow and turned to face me. He pulled a bit of candy floss off the stick, and gently pushed it into my mouth. Everything went deadly still.

He started stroking my cheek, and a tear dropped from his eye. He opened his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. I kissed him hard on the lips for what felt like ages, but was probably only ten seconds.

He still had his eyes closed when I pulled away. He sighed, shook his head and opened them again. Staring at me, he said, with stuttering, "girl, will you go out with me?"

I wanted to scream. Why was he asking me now, when we only had a week longer of being in the same country? I shook my head. The time for this had long gone.

Choking, he asked "why not?"

"We need to let go, boy. Our time is done."

"Our time isn't over. I'm not going to UBC."

"What? Yes you are, you accepted the place already."

"I wrote to them a week ago to default my application. I'm not going."

I wanted to cry. "But that's your dream!"

"No, girl, my dream has always been you. It's done and I don't regret it. I'm coming with you. If Harvard won't let me in this year, I'll start next year. It's all been planned, my parents know."

I was speechless. He kissed me again, this time for a few minutes. Pulling back, his eyes were on fire with love.

"Now, girl, will you go out with me?"

I could barely say "yes" through the tears.
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It caused quite a stir.

"Alex, you're on!" I shouted. He scrambled downstairs in his boxers to watch the news.

"Projected overall first pick in the NHL draft, Alex Karlsson, has today turned his back on ice hockey, citing family reasons." A backdrop of a badly-filmed reel of his high school goals was playing. He laughed, with his arms around me as we faced the television.

"Karlsson, of Victoria High School, was accepted onto a scholarship at the University of British Columbia, but has since withdrawn his application. He has notified the NHL that he wishes to be made ineligible for this year's draft, and will be continuing his academic studies away from the ice hockey rink. The team with the first overall pick, the Detroit Red Wings, released this statement..."

He turned the television off. He looked at me.