When I met Annie she was an RA on my dormitory floor. I developed a crush after a while, and we went out on Valentine’s Day – but just as friends. We spent the evening having dinner, sitting at a café, and ended it in her room playing our favorite songs. We talked, got to know each other, and found we had much in common. Still, to my bittersweet realization, there was nothing more than friendship between us.

From that night on, though, we were inseparable. All our free time was spent together in my room or hers. Whether we were talking, reading in the same room, doing sudoku puzzles or watching movies, we were rarely apart. I felt comfortable with her. Comfortable like I’d never felt with anybody. I was happy to be with her, even if we were just friends.

At some point we invented what we called “Digital Care Packages” – file folders we sent each other over the internet, stuffed with music files, pictures, videos, favorite poems. Our different music tastes began to collide and we drew each other into our favorite artists. I forced U2 down her throat, and she taught me the brilliance of Ani DiFranco.

As spring came and the weather got warmer, I sent her a Bob Dylan song called “Not Dark Yet,” from his album Time Out of Mind. I had listened to this song on many a summer night since I was twelve. The way the music flowed, creating an atmosphere of heat and darkness, was more cathartic than most songs I’d ever known. When she first listened to the song (with her eyes closed, the way we always listened to the important songs) she said, soon as it ended, “It makes me think of a summer night.”

One day she was different with me. It wasn’t unwelcome, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was happening. Then it hit me: Annie was flirting with me. It threw me completely out of whack. Before long, through the grapevine, I found out that she had told a mutual friend that she had developed romantic feelings for me.

A few days passed and we were lying in bed together. We had gone out for ice cream and returned to the dorm late. I told her I had to finish writing a paper, but she insisted I come hang out for just a little longer. I relented, and we lay there in the dark. The window was open, and a warm breeze was blowing in. Her iTunes was running on shuffle. We weren’t saying a word, but we were getting closer and closer. Holding each other that much more tightly, hands placed that much more intimately. And suddenly, “Not Dark Yet” came on.

Maybe it was because the moment and the song went together so fluidly. Maybe it was because it was a song I had given her. Maybe it was coincidence. But as soon as Dylan’s guitar strings sounded, we kissed each other. I can’t begin to describe how I felt at that moment without scraping a cliché, so I’ll avoid metaphors and simply say that my heart was racing so fast that my body shook. My feelings were returned, and I couldn’t believe it.

The following weeks proved to me that it wasn’t a mistake or a fluke, and we were began spending nights as well as days together. Still, in spite of how perfect the situation felt, something wasn’t right. She told me she couldn’t commit to me, that what we shared had to be kept simple and not be serious. All I could do was promise that I cared about her, and that preserving our friendship was what was most important to me.

Summer came on us suddenly and fiercely, and we were going to be separated during the break. I was headed back home, while she was staying on campus. We vowed to visit each other regularly. We made immediate plans for the first weekend, and I would see her for her birthday two weeks after that. It was while we were apart that I admitted to myself that I had fallen in love with her.

A few days before I was to visit her, she called. She wanted to talk. She told me that we couldn’t have the kind of relationship we had any more, that I would only end up getting hurt, and that she was sorry. I was shattered. I felt like there was a cavity in my chest, a feeling that persisted throughout that summer. And there was no way I could listen to “Not Dark Yet.” My summer song. It was my summer song, and she had taken it away from me, during summer, no less! How perfect, I thought, that a song about death would only remind me of the death of one of the happiest times of my life.

Since that summer, Annie and I have become friends again. We are both in healthy relationships with other people, and when spend time together I realize our friendship survived something that few friendships can. We even trade music from time to time. And yet, despite the healing, there are nights when I’m lying in bed alone or with my girlfriend and “Not Dark Yet” will start to play. I jump out of bed and skip to the next track.