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Many enduring bonds begin with a time of gentle intimidation, and so it was with my friendship with her. We were eighteen, in our freshman phase at university, while also sharing a few lessons in French. I hadn’t learned her name, had never caught her speak in our native tongue but, with her voluminous curls and warm, inquisitive stare, she was noticeable. I assumed she would be too cool to associate with someone like me.

One weekend, at a student social in the dingy union bar, alcohol served as an icebreaker and the barriers fell away. Nods of recognition in the corridor became bright hellos, then sandwiches in the coffee shop, followed by evening adventures and soothing hangovers in front of the TV in our run-down accommodations.

Originally from Derry, I called home a English county, and we bonded over being away from family, not quite joining the newly shaping social groups, and, like typical learners in the 90s, never having enough funds. Whenever either managed to get hold of some – from a temporary employment, a celebration or a compassionate bank manager – then it meant we both had money. Even prior to our autumn term grant cheques had even been processed, we would race off to buy something recent to wear to cheer ourselves up, getting by with tea and toast and affordable drinks until the next cash infusion.

A few years later, we befriended Emma (not her real name), and the group weathered life’s key moments together. My friend had her newborn the same year I revealed myself as gay, and we got through personal shifts, career shifts, house moves and family dramas. Her successes, of which there were plenty, were ours; we experienced each other’s tragedies as if they were our own.

Once we were “mature individuals”, my friend and I would spend Sundays at Nichola’s house with her, her husband, and young sons, doing “a tradition”: cooking a traditional meal together, chatting, sharing laughs and swaying in the cooking area to melodies from our past. I had a piece of heaven and didn’t understand until it was removed.

A phone ring came from my other friend, one warm summer afternoon. Looking at my device, I thought it was a impromptu update about the Sunday club trip to Spain we were arranged to go on in two weeks’ time. My dear friend had died out of nowhere and unexpectedly; there was no possibility anyone could have done.

Learning the news was the weirdest, most frightening experience of my life. I felt something deep-seated, almost, in the shock and alarm of my instant grief. I’d been devastated to lose my older relatives years earlier, but I accepted that was the order of things; dying in old age. Her passing was extraordinary, foreign. It didn’t feel real, it couldn’t be true – we had been texting the day before, we had plans that weekend, travel buys to do. It was a uneventful Wednesday; how could this nothing of a day become so life-altering in a instant? The day of her death is a bleak, misshapen jigsaw piece that doesn’t fit the sunny, cheerful and fun puzzle of a life we had shared. I remember it with photographic horror.

During the subsequent days and weeks, Emma and I parked our grief, focusing on those closest to her. They would be most affected by her death, after all – above all her children. Along with other kin, we kept things functioning, and addressed painful logistical matters. I drafted and shared a eulogy at her funeral on behalf of her friends, and volunteered for the task of terminating the holiday. The travel company were heartless and treated me as if I was attempting deception. They demanded to speak to Nichola’s devastated husband and asked for details inaccessible in her work email. I remember taking copies of her ID and death certificate to secure a potential refund – nothing hits you with the truth harder than plain English, in print, on official paper. Her home felt so altered, the rooms more spacious and emptier, echoey. It was like a terrible vision, really, except I’ve never stirred from it.

Engaging yourself with tasks is a coping mechanism but, if anything, it postponed coming to terms with what happened. Leaving the inner bubble of those affected was difficult. The world looked just as before, but my heart felt cratered, the depth of my grief extremely difficult to share to others.

Thinking about others’ grief, we revert to relationships’ natural hierarchies as a benchmark. As a society, we acknowledge the impact of sorrow of losing a family member; it needs little context, even for those harbouring grudges. Her children would never have another mother, her husband had lost the love of his life, and, as a offspring and sibling, she was invaluable. Such losses are devastating and profound. A bond is harder to evaluate. What entitlement did I have to mourn for her so deeply when I had other friends?

The profoundness of my grief seemed to puzzle people who didn’t know her. They would ask how intimate we were, how long I’d had in my life her, how often we met each other. I felt I somehow had to explain it, and highlight how much she signified to me. I began to feel ashamed, as if I didn’t have a justification to be so utterly lost when the lives of those closer to her had been devastated.

Relationships are ongoing dialogues … they outlast and endure beyond loves

Following losing a family member, nobody expects much from you for a long time, but we both had to get back to our jobs. I was given one week off from my independent role; she spent days at her office, holding back tears, scarcely concentrating. We weren’t prepared, but grief is inconvenient for others and has a deadline; your sorrow makes them awkward.

The gaps in my life crept up on me. A missing birthday text comes through, a new juicy piece of gossip goes untold, your calendar has more free time, formerly mutual activities become diminished. A key things we both would do on meeting up was evaluate each other’s style. All these years later, when I buy something, I try to visualise her reaction. My other friend does the same.

Maybe we ignore the grief of friends because “friend” is a broad label, applied to acquaintances and {acquaintances|contacts|associates