In middle school I befriended the guy who I wanted to live with and love with for the rest of my life.

I worked every social angle I could just to become friends with him, not knowing for sure whether he was even gay — I just wanted to be close to him. It's rather creepy when I look back, but teenage hormones & good judgement often tend to be mutually exclusive. We did get to be close friends, but I kept my feelings under lock-and-key for fear of scaring him away.

After our 2nd year of school I found out he was going away to California to live with his stepdad for the summer. I knew I'd miss him immensely, but we kept in touch by phone.

3 weeks in I got a call from him, and something sounded different. His voice was tired, stressed, downtrodden, and he went on to explain that his stepdad caught him drinking and was kicking him out.

I was initially excited that he'd be coming home, until he informed me that wasn't the case: He was being kicked flat-out on his ass, end of story.

At that point in my life, I thought it was up to me to fix other peoples' problems. It was the way I grew up, relying on myself because no one else needed to deal with my troubles. It felt like altruism, but ultimately wasn't.

In any case, after his call I did everything I could to fix the problem: Offering to send him money, trying to convince him to come live with my family... my father even tried to call both of his parents, to no avail. Nothing was working (or working fast enough, that is) and I panicked.

Age 16, caught somewhere between love & crisis... I packed what I needed, booked a cheap Amtrak fare through a railroad-engineer relative, and ran away from home to be with him, riding all the way from northern Montana to San Francisco.

We joked and laughed for a bit at the wharf after I got off the bus. We took a long walk, talked, cried & confided, and then laughed some more. We put our minds to figuring out how two minors could stay in the city for the summer.

He and I found jobs posting flyers around the city for a marketing agency. We lied about our ages to a renter and got into a cheap sub-level room under an old Scandinavian-looking building on Clay St.

I bought several prepaid phone cards and would dial the toll-free numbers on the first one, then the second, then the third, etc. to "bounce" the location of the call when keeping in touch with my parents to let them know I was okay. (I later came to find out that although they would often ask questions trying to figure out where I was, they actually trusted me and never called the police or tried to trace my calls, so I'll never be sure whether such a thing works or not.)

At 1 month our place was robbed, and pretty much all of our cash stolen. More laughing and crying to follow, more confiding, and finally I came out to him.... and he came out to me. I had my first ever kiss that night, and despite living in a dark, noisy basement with concrete walls and 2 lightbulbs, every moment over the next month felt like living somewhere between a dream and heaven.

I learned that his stepfather had disowned him after finding gay porn on the computer, and his ultra-conservative mom had also told him never to return home — But we made a promise to return back to Montana together, and my parents again agreed (not knowing either of us were gay) that he could come live with our family, at least until he could contact relatives or find a living situation.

The day came, and he didn't.

I changed my plans to travel home twice and spent a night on the street so that I could look for him. In the mid-90s, there was no Facebook or text-messaging to send "WTF are you??" messages, so I beat the pavement every which way to find him.

I came up empty-handed. I couldn't leave but didn't have much other choice, and although heartbroken and yet again panicked, headed back to Montana in time for school to start again.

For the better part of 5 years I looked for him & tried to contact him, even returning to SF again for a week to try tracking him down.

I found Zack again — and saw him for the last time — shortly after high school. We again laughed & cried. I held his hand, recalled stories, prayed for him and with him, fixed his hair, sang him songs and gently kissed him when no one was looking... and laid beside him in his hospital bed at his last breath.

He had stayed in the city, taken to the "escorting" scene, and contracted HIV for which there was pretty much no treatment at the time. I hated him so fucking much when I found out, and although he barely resembled the person I'd known just years ago when I got to his side, I could do nothing but love him again.

I am now more than twice that age, and 10 years ago found another person to share my life and love with. He came into my life unexpectedly, and brought me a piece of my heart that I'd forgotten was missing. He is my world. We have great jobs, loving families, a house and were finally able to marry last year.

I've not forgotten Zack, because every person who enters your life touches it in some way, just as you do theirs: It is a mutual contribution to each others lives, whether you know it or not. In that, you can never replace people. But time moves forward regardless, and you will find a way to do good with it, and what things others have contributed to your life.

It's perhaps cliche to end with, but... things do get better. Hugs, OP.