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Many enduring bonds begin with a time of gentle apprehension, and such was the case with our relationship with her. Both of us were young adults, in our first year at college, and attending a few lessons in French. I didn’t know her name, had never heard her speak in the local language but, with her voluminous curls and friendly, inquisitive stare, she made an impression. My guess was she would be far too popular to spend time with someone like me.

One weekend, at a student social in the dingy campus lounge, alcohol became an social lubricant and the inhibitions dropped. Nods of recognition in the passageway became upbeat greetings, then sandwiches in the cafe, followed by social excursions and nursing headaches in front of the TV in our run-down accommodations.

Originally from her hometown, my roots were in a English county, and we formed a tie over being far from home, not quite slotting into the quickly emerging social groups, and, like the majority of learners in the nineties, never having enough funds. Should 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. Before our fall semester student loans had even gone through, we would race off to buy something fresh to wear to cheer ourselves up, surviving on tea and toast and budget beverages until the next financial boost.

With time passing, we welcomed a mutual acquaintance (not her real name), and the three of us faced life’s milestones together. Nichola had her newborn the same year I shared as gay, and we got through romantic evolutions, career shifts, house moves and domestic challenges. Her successes, of which there were many, were ours; we experienced each other’s hardships as if they were our own.

When we became “real adults”, we two would spend weekend days at her home with her, her husband, and young sons, doing “our weekly ritual”: cooking a traditional meal together, gossiping, cracking jokes and moving in the cooking area to melodies from our past. I had a piece of heaven and didn’t understand until it was taken away.

A phone ring came from Emma, one warm summer afternoon. Glancing at my mobile, I assumed it was a impromptu update about the weekly gathering holiday to our destination we were booked to go on in 14 days. My dear friend had left us out of nowhere and shockingly; there was nothing anyone could have done.

Learning the news was the strangest, most frightening experience of my life. I felt something primal, almost, in the surprise and fear of my instant grief. I had felt crushed to lose my grandmothers years earlier, but I accepted that was the natural course of things; passing in later life. Nichola’s death was exceptional, unfamiliar. It didn’t seem logical, it couldn’t be true – we had been texting the day before, we had intentions that weekend, travel buys to do. It was a ordinary Wednesday; how could this mundane of a day become so important in a instant? The day of her death is a dark, irregular jigsaw piece that doesn’t fit the blue-skied, happy and silly puzzle of a life we had shared. I remember it with vivid horror.

Over the next days and weeks, Emma and I delayed our grief, focusing on those closest to her. They would be deeply wounded by her death, after all – especially her little boys. Along with other kin, we kept things running, and tackled difficult practical tasks. I composed and delivered a tribute at her ceremony on behalf of her friends, and took on the task of calling off the holiday. The travel company were monsters and handled me as if I was attempting a scam. They required to speak to Nichola’s devastated husband and asked for details inaccessible in her work email. I remember taking scans of her passport and official record to secure a hoped-for refund – nothing affects you with the truth harder than plain English, in print, on official paper. Her home felt so altered, the rooms bigger and barer, resonant. It was like a terrible vision, really, except I’ve never awoken from it.

Busying yourself with logistics is a way to manage but, if anything, it delayed accepting Nichola’s death. Leaving the inner bubble of grievers was difficult. The world looked exactly the same, but my heart felt shattered, the depth of my grief extremely difficult to convey to those not involved.

When we consider others’ grief, we revert to relationships’ natural hierarchies as a standard. As a society, we acknowledge the scope of sorrow of losing a relative; it needs minimal context, even for those harbouring negative feelings. Her children would never have a different mother, her husband had lost the love of his life, and, as a child and sibling, she was unique. Such losses are heartbreaking and profound. A connection is harder to measure. What entitlement did I have to grieve for her so powerfully when I had different people?

The depth of my grief seemed to confuse 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 met 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 justification to be so totally lost when the lives of those closer to her had been shattered.

Bonds are continuous conversations … they outlast and endure beyond loves

In the wake of losing a loved one, nobody demands much from you for a long time, but we both had to get back to work. I was given one week off from my freelance role; she spent days at her office, holding back tears, barely concentrating. We weren’t prepared, but grief is troublesome for others and has a time limit; your sorrow makes them uneasy.

The absences in my life gradually affected me. One fewer birthday text comes through, a new juicy piece of gossip goes unshared, your calendar has more free time, previously joint activities become less fun. One of the first things we both would do on meeting up was appraise each other’s outfits. All these years later, when I buy something, I try to picture her reaction. She does the same.

Perhaps we overlook the grief of friends because “pal” is a umbrella label, applied to colleagues and {acquaintances|contacts|associates