In the hallway just now, an American neighbor asked when I am going home because we were discussing our last exams. "Saturday," I said. Then she asked if I had been home at all since I left. "Nope," I shrugged. She called me "brave." I hadn't thought about being brave since before I left for eight months. I mean, how brave can I be if she's in a similar situation? So what if she hasn't been here as long. I don't think anyone in her position can call me brave.
But this exchange also represents something else. It was the first conversation that I've had where my answer to the question "When are you going home?" was a day of the week. It's not about June 9 anymore.
I'm so close, but it seems a bit far because I've so much to do before I go.
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