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"I guess I'll, er, see you... when I see you?" I say and we hug each other under the bright fluorescent lights of the night train as it pulls into my station. We are on our way home from a farewell that she'd planned,
my farewell, which involved the two of us scoffing cheese fondue and red wine at an underground restaurant in Sydney - the kind with exposed brick walls and waiters with dubious French accents.
We'd spent the night reminiscing on some of our favourite escapades. Like the time I moved house and she came over to help re-construct my IKEA bed (without instructions, might I add) and we couldn't stop laughing because we had no idea what to do. Or when she frantically called everyone that she knew with a dog ahead of my birthday to arrange a surprise canine visit (we juuust missed out on a sausage dog puppy, I'm told, but it