Mallory and I lived together for our first three years of college. And even though I lived with seven other girls my last year of college and I’ve now moved back home, I still refer to Mallory as my roommate.

Me in California, she in Texas, we exchanged IMs before we officially met and discovered that not only were we in weird relationships, but we both had curly hair and the same style in music. C’mon, what are the odds? She opened the door of the dorm room, wearing that Krispy Kreme T-shirt and a huge smile. “When are y’all fixin to go to supper?” Y’all? Fixin? Supper? I knew this was the start of something great.

We really were quite the team. For three years we made arranging dorm furniture an art. Put us together, our people watching commentary was five times better than the Best Week Ever people. There’s even a vivid memory of driving to church on a warm day belting out Hanson’s (yes, you read that correctly) “Penny and Me.” Or how about that time we baked a funfetti bundt cake that didn’t come out of the pan, so we just poured frosting all over the top and grabbed some forks.

Most of those good times led to the day immortalized in this next picture. My car was full of stuff headed for storage and she was preparing to spend the summer in China. We had lived together for three years. Some could call it the end of an era! I told myself I wasn’t going to cry, but boy did I blubber. But it felt good to see that I wasn’t alone. Even after all those times she took out the garbage when it piled to the ceiling, made my bed and disregarded my messy half of the room, she had enjoyed the time we spent together too. (Yes, she did actually do those things and I still don’t know why we still don’t live together seeing as she’s the perfect roommate!)

And then there were the boys. They were our friends and foes, but quite often a topic of conversation. Remember how that one guy was a complete liar, Mal? And you took the leftover Halloween chocolate finger candy that your mom sent us, put it on a card and made it the lone middle one sticking straight up with the words “Boys Suck.” Inside you wrote about how I shouldn’t settle for scum, and also for my future reference “boys suck” is not the best combination of words to Google.

That was the year when we lived on the floor with the most desirable group of girls in the school. Boys flocked to our floor hoping to spend an ounce of time with these girls. We, however, apparently didn’t belong in the desirable group. And the two guys that we, and the majority of the girls at our school, were quite interested in … well, they walked right past the second door to the right to about the tenth one on the left. They didn’t know what they were missing, we’d say.

That third year you were an RA and I was copy editing the school paper and found a keeper of a boyfriend. Busy this, busy that, before I knew it you were friends with those two boys. All of a sudden ours was the first room they came to. One of them, perhaps the most coveted on campus, started hanging around a little more often. Before I knew it, graduation came and went. Mallory stayed there and I went back home. In the flurry, we lost touch.

Then on Wednesday I opened an envelope holding cardstock and shiny rice paper held together with a bright bow which told me Mallory is getting married to that guy. I screamed, I dialed and screamed some more. She wasn’t there, but a couple days later we chatted and it was great.

Andrew, I spent many days and months molding her, but I’m happy to say, you’ve got yourself a great future roommate.