Today I half broke down in front of my Japanese teacher. Not understanding or being able to make myself understood makes me want to die a little; hide a little; kick in a little window with my bare right foot. It's been six months since my plane touched down in Tokyo and yes I understand much more than I did then, but even a two hundred percent increase isn't much when you start at one. Thus the tears.

The tears actually waited until I left her house, but they started welling up when she asked "How are you?"

Last night I was marveling at how awesome my life is. It's still awesome, but today I'm tired. Not depressed, just tired.

There was woodsmoke in the air on my walk home—the last night I'll ever walk up to this apartment—and I thought about my favorite date because that night there was also woodsmoke. It was back when I couldn't call a date a date without facing disciplinary action from BYU. We skewered bits of steak on sticks we'd sharpened. (Mostly he'd sharpened, I'm not handy with a knife.) We talked about dreams and hopes and what we'd done already. We didn't touch at all because we were both only half out of the closet and then there was BYU. I think probably we would touch now, if he weren't dating someone and I weren't in Japan and we were sitting by the fire roasting bits of steak in a park somewhere. Maybe not, though.

I love you.