Dear Green Bandana,

This morning I woke up and remembered the strangest things.

I wondered if you could tell me why I suddenly miss them more than I'll ever say.

The taxi in Thailand, and how the three of us poked each other in the ribs, giggling, until we stopped suddenly as you said that tonight might be the last time we all saw each other.

And it was.

And stretched out on your hotel bed, with Tyler. Flicking cards in a circle as an excuse to keep talking.

The way you threw yourself down on your bed, mortified and laughing, when I came through the door at the wrong moment.

Those iced coffees and chocolate shakes.

Shoulder massages.

The rooftop you showed me? Little did you know I went up there a few mornings and sang worship songs to the entirety of Poi Pet.

Your little grin that fell somewhere between 'aren't-I-clever' and 'I-knew-you'd-think-this-was-cool-too'. I had all but forgotten about that.

I never told you, but after I hugged you one last time, and you and your family waved disappeared around the corner with your luggage carts, tears came out of nowhere and I sobbed.

Maybe I knew it was the first of my many goodbyes.

But for some reason, today, all I can think about is those blurry lights of Bangkok whipping by. And that taxi ride. And how, watching you, I couldn't stop feeling sad.