I truly used to think that this elemental thing called "love" was some sort of myth, or perhaps a trick your mind plays on you to make procreation of the species easier.
Then I met Julia.

(I still love the way it rolls off the tongue. It was even better when she said it with her light southern accent. I'd often mispronounce it so she'd feel forced to correct me...)

It wasn't love at first sight; it was a gradual thing. Being friends was initially fine with me until I saw beneath her quiet exterior. She wasn't an outgoing person but she was insanely creative, and was only able to get that inner voice out through indirect ways. Just like me.

We shared one outlet in the midst of it all: poetry.

So we went on, writing poem after poem. In truth, most of them weren't very good -- but they got the point across, and in much smoother fashion than either of us could have done face to face.

It went like this, a game of cat and mouse, for nearly two months, until after several late-night cries we finally broke and admitted that we were in love. It was almost like we were both ashamed of it, as if it was going against our moral beliefs. I think that's because it was the first time for both of us.

They say that losing your virginity is traumatic, but falling in love is worse in many ways. At least it was for me ... because here I was, trapped in the northwest, and she was going to school in North Carolina.

Yeah, love.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad had we lived next door to each other. Hell, in the same state would've been nice, but it didn't work that way.

Now it's a few months after we said our good-byes and the only thing I've got left is a sour taste in my mouth and a scrapbook full of pictures and poems.

Something tells me it's not supposed to happen this way.