There are two primary experiences that have shaped why and how I make friends.

The first is simply a fact: I am an only child, and I never went to kindergarten. From the very beginning, I learned to entertain myself. Ever since I learned how to read, the easiest way to find me was in the nearest corner; most likely, I would be there with yet another book. I liked to read anything adventurous, be it Tom Sawyer or Oliver Twist. I still love fascinating imaginary worlds.

In principle, I do not feel a particularly strong need for companionship. Do not get me wrong: I love shared experiences. But I am also entirely comfortable doing just about anything by myself; silence helps the everyday tension and the burden of an overstimulated nervous system leave my body.

The second is a matter of circumstance: I have lived away from home since I was fifteen (I am twenty-five at the time of writing this). Very often, with my family far away, I could rely only on myself. Speaking from a highly privileged position, I still had to manage endless paperwork, permits, side jobs, moves, and bureaucratic complications.

This, combined with the fact above, created a strange state in which I became abominably independent, yet often felt lonely. Sometimes I still do, although much less than before.

Some years ago, somewhere in the middle of yet another move, I realized that I need friends. Not for the companionship itself. For the truth of it. I enjoy friendly banter: chatting about films, sports, books — whatever comes to mind. Yet the thing I value most in friendship is learning what people truly care about in life: what their aspirations are, who they are.

It matters to me to know, with material concerns stripped away and ordinary needs satisfied, who we would choose to be. What kind of people we are outside of daily work and social role-playing. What values, if nobody were watching, we would stand for. More than anything else, this gives me a sense of true connection — a feeling that life is not being lived foolishly.

Quite bluntly, I do not think I care how many times we partied together. If there was even one conversation in which I was trusted with the vulnerable truth of what truly matters in life to you, I will appreciate it. I promise that I will treat this knowledge with care and respect. That I will be gentle with it, and with us — the us that emerges in that exact moment. It is rare; it deserves protection.

And if you want, I will share what I truly care about too.