Besties Need Not Apply

Why I never joined the best friend club:

Unsplash. Shaun Rounce.

The rain poured outside as we settled into our chairs, the soft patter against the windows deepening the cosy atmosphere indoors. Soon enough, like a domino falling inevitably over, the conversation tumbled toward the word “bestie”. A charged silence fell over the room, as familiar and unsettling as an old wound.

“Wait, since when is she your best friend?” a voice chimed in, the tone dancing between mock outrage and playful jealousy, or a bit of both.

I was mid-sip when the question cut through the cafe chatter, instantly turning my coffee bitter. “What about you?” Saira’s eyes fixed on me. “Who would you say is your best friend?”

There it was. The question I always dreaded. The cafe’s espresso machine hissed in the background, filling the awkward silence. I set down my cup, buying time with a practiced smile. “Oh, you know, I don’t really do the whole ‘best friend’ thing.”

The table fell silent. Their reaction was a mix of confusion and disbelief. “What do you mean? Don’t be diplomatic!” Suhani exclaimed. While they exchanged glances and tried to make sense of my heretical remark, I leaned back in my chair, inhaling the rich aroma of Brazilian roast. My gaze drifted past them to the rain-streaked window, wondering how I was going to explain something that felt as natural to me as breathing.

Here’s the thing: I don’t dislike the concept of friendship. Quite the opposite, actually. I love friendships, and at times I can take them more seriously than life itself. My friends mean the world to me, each one adding their own distinct flavor to my life. But this whole “best friend” business? I don’t get anything about it.

I recalled the first time I realised I wasn’t cut out for the whole “bestie” thing. Back in school, everyone around me was pairing off like swans. They’d huddle together, share secrets and match friendship bracelets and pledge eternal loyalty over a shared plate of food. I was the odd one out, but not in the lonely way people assumed. I drifted between groups like a honeybee in a garden – joking with one friend at lunch, exchanging movie recommendations with another in class, and bickering with a third on the way home.

From the sideways glances and well-meaning advice, it seemed some people assumed I was still searching for “the one” — that magical best friend who would complete my social circle like the final piece of a puzzle. As if friendship was like a romantic comedy waiting for its final act. But the truth was, I liked the variety that life offered. I appreciated the diversity each friend injected into my life, — a different joke, a different perspective, a different rhythm. Why would I fall into the trap of choosing just one when it was the whole ensemble cast that made life fun?

I watched as others navigated the highs and lows of “best friendships”, and I started to feel quietly grateful that I had never joined the club. Steadfast and enduring, my relationships eschewed grand declarations. They thrived instead on a quiet, unshakeable foundation. I’d dive into whodunits with one mate, trade quips at house parties with another. A third was my go-to for pondering life’s big questions. And that fourth? Forever dancing like a hooligan with me at clubs. Each friendship was a unique flavour in life’s rich stew.

As I grew older, the illusion of the “best friend” continued to fade like morning mist. Like a cracked mirror, the idea reflected a distorted image of what friendship truly meant. Reality chipped away at childhood dreams of perfect companionship. Around me, I witnessed the exhausting dance of exclusive friendships — the guilt-ridden text messages about spending time with others, the unspoken competition for the “best” title, the pressure to maintain a perfect connection that seemed to bring more stress than joy. Meanwhile, my own friendships, unburdened by labels or rules, flourished in their freedom, each one growing in its own unique direction like branches reaching for sunlight.

Besides, I have always felt that best friendships are an overattachment. Like trying to capture a river’s flow in a photograph, the label “best friend” freezes something meant to be fluid. Eastern philosophy speaks of “beginner’s mind” — approaching each moment fresh, without preconceptions. But this label does the opposite: it creates a fixed version of someone in our head, making us blind to who they’re becoming. True friendship might mean releasing our grip on definitions and allowing our connections to unfold naturally. Sometimes we grow closer, sometimes we drift apart, and sometimes we dance in the space between, but each movement remains authentic in the process. When we let go of those attachments, friendships become liberating and truly enjoyable.

Maybe it’s just my way of seeing things, but I think bonds that don’t need labels have more depth. That’s why the term “best friend” has never truly felt like something I can relate to. To me, a true connection goes beyond words. In fact, the more I hear people use those terms, especially when they apply them to many people, the more I understand why I don’t use them myself. It’s not that I don’t value my closest relationships — I do — but to me, friendship feels too complex to be reduced to a label. It’s not about a title or a ranking of who is “best”; it’s about trust, shared moments, and an understanding that doesn’t need a name. Spirituality often encourages us to practise non-attachment, which isn’t about withdrawing or becoming emotionally detached, but about letting go of the need to control or define relationships in a fixed way. Instead of feeling the need to label someone as our “best friend” to validate the connection, we can simply be with them — fully present, without attachment to titles or roles.

When someone asks about my best friend now, I don’t launch into a heartfelt explanation about my philosophy on friendships. I just smile and say, “I’ve got a few great friends that I can always count on, and that’s all I’ll ever need.”

The words always hang in the air like the steam from my coffee, making others shift in their seats, unsure whether to admire or pity me. But I’ve learned to find comfort in that uncertainty, in the space between their expectations and my reality. Through the rain-streaked window, I watch people hurry past, each carrying their own carefully labeled relationships. Meanwhile, I sit here, cradling my cooling coffee, keeper of a secret they might never understand: that sometimes the most precious things in life are the ones we don’t name.

After all, how do you label something so precious? You don’t — you just let it take your breath away.