I met Oliver a week after my 19th birthday, at a mixer thrown by a few friends. I still remember what he wore—a red flannel shirt with fitted jeans, classic Converse and two small, pearl earrings. His complexion was soft, his face riddled with perfect imperfections: wide set eyes, a gap in his teeth and a discolored spot hidden in his dark brown eyes, my favorite. We must have exchanged glances a hundred times that night, neither of us brave or drunk enough to make the first move.
I searched for him high and low online; we had no mutual friends, and nobody I knew at the party knew who he was. I almost gave up hope when, a month later, fate took hold: There he was, at a community theater production of Into the Woods, playing none other than Jack, the tale's giant-slaying youth. When I saw him up on that stage, time ceased to exist.

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