On the romance of friendships

I’ve always grown up romanticizing friendships. While other teenagers were dreaming of kissing boys under a tree, I was dreaming about climbing that tree with my friends and throwing chalk at the couples below. We’re taught that finding a partner—“the one”—is the ultimate love story. But what if the real romance is in our friendships? The people who show up, who stick around, who love you without expecting grand declarations in return.

This Valentine’s Day, I’m celebrating—and grieving—friendships. The ones I have, the ones I’ve lost, and the ones that shaped the way I love. Because honestly? My friends have taught me the most important lessons in romance.

Sharing Your Trophies

Childhood friendships are magical. They’re our first steps toward becoming who we are, away from the gaze of our families. I found my first best friend when I was five. We had the “I’ll always save you a seat” kind of bond. After one school race, she won first place, I came second—and she handed me her bigger trophy. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. It mattered a lot. It taught me that love sometimes looks like sharing a shiny plastic trophy or half a lunchbox.

Our friendship lasted six strong years, until I moved countries. That was my first heartbreak. Even though we still keep in touch, I sometimes wonder what our friendship would’ve looked like if I’d stayed.

Laughing Together

Middle school friendships? Pure gold. You’re grown up just enough to be chaotic, but still innocent enough to believe you’ll be besties forever. In sixth grade, I found my partner-in-crime. We were inseparable—“like peanut butter and jam,” our teacher said. And we were. We’d spend all day at school together, then go home and call each other to recap… the day we just spent together.

We went from awkward kids to stylish teens, learned how to talk to boys, bunk class, and add flair to our school uniforms. She was my first wingwoman and my loudest laugh. She taught me the importance of joy, and the kind of intimacy that only comes from truly growing up together.

We eventually caught the “dating bug” and drifted apart, but every time we meet, the laughter comes back like it never left.

Solidarity in Adventures

By the time I reached college, I had high expectations for friendship—and while I didn’t find one perfect friend, I stumbled into something better: a group. Group friendships are a different kind of love. Messy, loud, and deeply loyal. My college group taught me solidarity: “all of us or none of us.” We did everything we weren’t supposed to, and we did it together—got caught together, covered for each other, and lived like we were invincible.

Group friendships may not always have the intimacy of one-on-one bonds, but they carry their own kind of magic. And even when they fade, the love stays. There’s always a wedding, a reunion, or a random 2 a.m. FaceTime to bring the madness back.

Showing up when it is messy

My first taste of adult friendship came when I moved away from home. There’s a special kind of love in a friend who holds your hand during a breakdown, makes you soup when you’re sick in a hostel, or simply sits with you on a homesick night. These friendships weren’t always built on years, but they were deep. They were real.

We shared fears on long walks, swapped heartbreak stories over cheap wine, cried over job rejections, and became each other’s family during festivals. I wrote poetry for a friend. I traveled cities just to see one. I grieved when they moved, got jealous when they fell in love, and sometimes, I hugged them to sleep.

Romance? I found it all in friendship.

I’ve been lucky to find beautiful friends. I’ve also lost many of them. Adult friendships are hard. In this fast, hyper-connected world, it’s strangely easy to grow apart. Schedules don’t align. Texts go unanswered. People change.

So this Valentine’s Day, I’m holding space for all of it—the friendships I have, the ones that drifted, and the ones I still miss. I’m celebrating the people who taught me how to love, long before romance had anything to do with it.

Because maybe the great love story of my life isn’t a partner—it’s the friends who stayed, and the memories of the ones who didn’t.