I once told a friend that I’d landed an internship at a law firm I’d been silently praying about for weeks. I told her with half a smile and a cautious tone, because I’d grown used to friendship reactions being… let’s say… noncommittal enthusiasm at best, thinly veiled jealousy at worst. But this friend? She shrieked so loudly down the phone I nearly dropped it. And then she cried. Actual tears. As if she had been interceding for me. That’s when I knew, this is the kind of friendship I’ll write about one day.

You know those moments when you catch yourself scrolling through your contacts and wonder, “Who here is actually a friend… and who’s just on the payroll of my good intentions?” Yeah, me too. Friendship isn’t meant to be a full-time job, although, sometimes it feels like one, especially in your twenties, when life is this awkward mix of growing up and still wanting to binge-watch The Great British Bake Off with a mate who actually shows up.

Let’s start with a little truth serum: the notion of a “best friend”, one singular soulmate who completes you, your ride-or-die, your one true confidante, is a charming fiction we were sold alongside fairytales, Happy Meal toys, and the false hope that mortgage rates would be kind by our thirties.