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Countless lifelong connections commence with a phase of gentle nervousness, and such was the case with the bond I shared with my dear friend. We were 18, in our freshman phase at university, while also taking a few French classes. Her name escaped me her name, had never caught her speak in English but, with her abundant curls and friendly, interested stare, she was noticeable. I believed she would be much too stylish to spend time with someone like me.

During a social event, at a student social in the well-worn student pub, drinks acted as an social lubricant and the inhibitions fell away. Friendly acknowledgments in the hallway became cheery welcomes, then snacks in the eatery, followed by nights out and recovering from headaches in front of the TV in our run-down student houses.

Hailing from a Northern Irish city, I am from a English county, and we formed a tie over being far from home, not quite joining the quickly emerging cliques, and, like most learners in the 90s, never having enough funds. Should either happened to get hold of some – from a part-time job, a birthday or a compassionate financial advisor – then it meant we both had money. In advance of our fall semester student loans had even been processed, we would hurry away to buy something new to wear to boost our mood, living off tea and toast and £1 pints until the next financial boost.

After a couple of years, we welcomed another companion (not her real name), and the trio faced life’s significant events together. My friend had her first baby the same year I revealed myself as homosexual, and we survived romantic evolutions, job transitions, relocations and domestic challenges. Triumphs she enjoyed, of which there were many, were collective; we felt each other’s hardships as if they were our own.

When we became “mature individuals”, we two would spend Sundays at Nichola’s house with her, her partner, and young sons, doing “Sunday club”: making a roast together, chatting, being humorous and swaying in the heart of the home to tunes from our youth. I had a slice of paradise and didn’t grasp until it was taken away.

A phone ring came from our companion, one hot summer afternoon. Looking at my phone screen, I believed it was a spontaneous catch up about the our planned vacation to Spain we were scheduled to go on in two weeks’ time. My dear friend had died unexpectedly and without warning; there was no possibility anyone could have done.

Learning the news was the strangest, most frightening experience of my life. I felt something primal, almost, in the stun and alarm of my instant grief. I was crushed to lose my family matriarchs years earlier, but I accepted that was the order of things; departing in later life. Nichola’s death was unusual, foreign. It didn’t seem logical, it couldn’t be true – we had been texting the day before, we had plans that weekend, holiday shopping to do. It was a random Wednesday; how could this mundane of a day become so important in a moment? The day of her death is a dark, distorted jigsaw piece that doesn’t fit the blue-skied, cheerful and fun puzzle of a life we had shared. I remember it with detailed horror.

Over the next days and weeks, my friend and I delayed our grief, prioritising Nichola’s family. They would be hit hardest by her death, after all – especially her little boys. Along with other kin, we kept things running, and tackled painful logistical matters. I composed and shared a speech at her funeral on behalf of her friends, and assigned myself the task of calling off the holiday. The tour operator were unfeeling and handled me as if I was attempting fraud. They required to speak to her grieving husband and asked for details private in her work email. I remember taking scans of her passport and death certificate to secure a hoped-for refund – nothing affects you with the finality harder than plain English, in ink, on government forms. Her home felt so altered, the rooms more spacious and barer, echoey. It was like a bad dream, really, except I’ve never woken up from it.

Busying yourself with practicalities is a survival technique but, if anything, it hindered accepting what happened. Leaving the close bubble of mourners was difficult. The world looked exactly the same, but my heart felt broken, the depth of my grief very hard to convey to others.

In reflecting on others’ grief, we tend to relationships’ expected orders as a measure. As a society, we acknowledge the impact of loss of losing a loved one; it needs minimal context, even for those holding resentments. Her children would never have a different mother, her husband had lost the partner, and, as a child and sibling, she was invaluable. Such losses are heartbreaking and life-changing. A connection is harder to evaluate. What entitlement did I have to grieve for her so deeply when I had additional companions?

The intensity of my grief seemed to baffle 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 meant to me. I began to feel guilty, as if I didn’t have a justification to be so totally lost when the lives of those closer to her had been devastated.

Relationships are evolving conversations … they come before and outlast romances

Following losing a close relative, nobody anticipates much from you for an extended period, but Emma and I had to get back to daily life. I was given a single week off from my contract role; she spent days at her workstation, holding back tears, scarcely concentrating. We weren’t ready, but grief is troublesome for others and has a deadline; your sorrow makes them awkward.

The absences in my life crept up on me. An absent birthday text comes through, a new exciting piece of gossip goes untold, your calendar has more blank spaces, previously joint activities become not as enjoyable. A key things my friend and I would do on meeting up was evaluate each other’s style. All these years later, when I buy something, I try to imagine her reaction. Emma does the same.

Maybe we underestimate the grief of friends because “friend” is a cover-all label, applied to workmates and {acquaintances|contacts|associates