I dated him when we were sophomores in college. He attended the Naval Academy, and he was sweet, and cute, and one of the nicest, most good-hearted people I've ever known.
We talked about getting married but I wasn't serious and he was and when we broke up, it was harder on him than it was on me.
He is the only friend request I've ever made on Facebook that's gone unaccepted.
Jason and I were together while I went through an epic body transformation, the first (and only) (ahem) time I've lost a LOT of weight. It's hard for me to separate my emotional memories of our time together, which was totally wonderful, and my emotional memories of Life As A Thin 20-Year-Old, because it was so different and...novel. I guess the upshot is that I remember those months vividly.
I have hung on to a few small vestiges from that era. My "skinny jeans" collection, if you will. (Except I know better than to save jeans that don't fit.) Instead, I literally have four t-shirts folded in my closet, taking up a tiny bit of space, reminding me of what I once wore and maybe someday will again. And as utterly ridiculous as this sounds, each t-shirt has its own story.
This t-shirt was Jason's. He loaned it to me while I was visiting him over the one summer we were together, and I loved it so much I asked to keep it. Selfishly, I loved it because it was really flattering -- even if, on a hanger in a closet 3,000 miles and 15 years away, it's not much to look at. But I also loved it because it was his. He was my boyfriend and he was cute and he worked out and had a stocky wrestler's build and the more big and masculine he was the more petite and girly I felt.
And I liked feeling that way.