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Many lifelong bonds commence with a phase of mild nervousness, and such was the case with our relationship with my dear friend. We were 18, in our freshman phase at higher education, and sharing a few language courses. Her name escaped me her name, had never listened to her speak in the local language but, with her voluminous curls and friendly, inquisitive stare, she made an impression. I assumed she would be much too stylish to spend time with someone like me.

On a particular Saturday, at a college party in the well-worn student pub, alcohol served as an social lubricant and the inhibitions fell away. Nods of recognition in the passageway became bright hellos, then sandwiches in the coffee shop, followed by nights out and soothing hangovers in front of the TV in our modest student houses.

Originally from a Northern Irish city, I am from a English county, and we bonded over being away from family, not quite joining the quickly emerging circles, and, like typical learners in the that decade, never having any money. Should either happened to get hold of some – from a casual work, a birthday or a understanding loan officer – then it meant we both had money. In advance of our first term grant cheques had even been processed, we would hurry away to buy something fresh to wear to boost our mood, living off tea and toast and affordable drinks until the next windfall.

With time passing, we became close with another companion (not her real name), and the three of us faced life’s significant events together. My friend had her first baby the same year I came out as queer, and we got through personal shifts, professional moves, relocations and family dramas. Achievements she made, of which there were numerous, were shared by all; we sensed each other’s tragedies as if they were our own.

Once we were “proper grownups”, Emma and I would spend weekend days at her home with her, her husband, and little ones, doing “our weekly ritual”: making a dinner together, chatting, being humorous and moving in the heart of the home to tunes from our youth. I had a piece of heaven and didn’t understand until it was taken away.

An incoming message came from our companion, one hot summer afternoon. Taking a peek at my phone screen, I assumed it was a last-minute update about the weekly gathering vacation to Spain we were arranged to go on in a fortnight. My dear friend had died suddenly and shockingly; there was no action anyone could have done.

Receiving the news was the weirdest, most horrifying experience of my life. I felt something deep-seated, almost, in the surprise and fear of my raw grief. I’d been crushed to lose my family matriarchs years earlier, but I understood that was the order of things; passing in advanced years. Losing her was extraordinary, alien. It didn’t feel real, it couldn’t be true – we had been texting the day before, we had plans that weekend, trip preparations to do. It was a random Wednesday; how could this insignificant of a day become so significant in a moment? 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 vivid horror.

Over the next days and weeks, we both set aside our grief, attending to those closest to her. They would be most affected by her death, after all – especially her children. Along with other family members, we kept things running, and addressed agonising admin duties. I drafted and delivered a speech at her funeral on behalf of her friends, and volunteered for the task of cancelling the holiday. The booking agency were monsters and treated me as if I was attempting deception. They demanded to speak to her heartbroken husband and sought details private in her work email. I remember taking images of her ID and death certificate to secure a potential refund – nothing affects you with the truth harder than direct words, in print, on government forms. Her home felt so altered, the rooms larger and starker, echoey. It was like a nightmare, really, except I’ve never woken up from it.

Busying yourself with logistics is a way to manage but, if anything, it hindered accepting what happened. Exiting the close bubble of those affected was difficult. The world looked just as before, but my heart felt broken, the power of my grief impossible to express to those not involved.

In reflecting on others’ grief, we default to relationships’ social structures as a measure. As a community, we recognise the extent of devastation of losing a relative; it needs little context, even for those harbouring resentments. Her children would never have another mother, her husband had lost the soulmate, and, as a daughter and family member, she was unique. Such losses are heartbreaking and transformative. A friendship is harder to evaluate. What claim did I have to mourn for her so powerfully when I had different people?

The profoundness of my grief seemed to baffle people who didn’t know her. They would ask how deep we were, how long I’d had in my life her, how often we saw each other. I felt I somehow had to explain it, and stress how much she signified to me. I began to feel remorseful, as if I didn’t have a reason to be so totally lost when the lives of those more connected to her had been torn apart.

Bonds are continuous exchanges … they predate and survive loves

After losing a close relative, nobody anticipates much from you for a long time, but my friend and I had to get back to our jobs. I was given a single week off from my freelance role; my companion spent days at her office, holding back tears, barely concentrating. We weren’t able, but grief is inconvenient for others and has a deadline; your sorrow makes them uncomfortable.

The gaps in my life sneaked up on me. An absent birthday text comes through, a new interesting piece of gossip goes unsaid, your calendar has more free time, previously joint activities become less fun. A key things Nichola and I would do on meeting up was compliment each other’s style. All these years later, when I buy something, I try to imagine her reaction. She does the same.

It could be that we overlook the grief of friends because “friend” is a broad label, applied to workmates and {acquaintances|contacts|associates