A world apart, time was marching forward, and while Dave was busy smooching Moscow, writing his honor's thesis, and getting ready to graduate, I was catching trains, waking up to heart rendingly gorgeous sunrises over Die Saentis, and trying my best not to think about the inconvenient fact that I was in love with my best friend in the world.
With six months left, I got a letter from my mom who noted, near the end, that she had talked to Dave's mom. It had been awhile since I had heard from him, so it seemed unavoidable to me that the next sentence would tell me of his imminent engagement to Moscow and emigration to the wastelands of Russia. I braced myself inwardly, fuming. How could he do this to me?! You'd think he would've at least written me himself. But, wait... "Apparently he and his girlfriend broke up recently and he's been having a hard time..."
Clutching the letter, I sat down on the steps, and--of all things--I cried. The selfish me was giddy that the Russian frau had been given the boot. Nothing could've made me happier. But the unselfish part of me hurt for my friend. I hurt that he was hurting. I wished that falling in love, and being in love, were simpler. At that moment, if being with Moscow was the thing that he wanted most and would've made him happiest, I would've wished for it and given them both my blessing.
Eventually, I got a letter from him--telling me of his breakup, and his feelings about it. He had decided to stay on at his current job after his graduation that summer. This news made me cautiously blissful. I had mere months of my mission left, and it appeared that Dave would be graduated from college, working full time, and romantically available.
Now all I needed him to do was experience a massive change of heart. What were the chances??