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Illustration by Sarah Farquhar
There’s this line in the film When Harry Met Sally – you know the one. “Men and women can’t be friends because the sex part always gets in the way.” Harry says it like it’s a universal truth. And honestly, I used to roll my eyes at it. So reductive. So heteronormative. So 1989.
I’ve always believed – maybe even needed to believe – that men and women can be friends. Real friends. The kind who show up when your life is falling apart and you need someone who won’t flinch. Who remember your childhood dog’s name and your current go-to movie theatre snacks. Who’ve seen you become five different people, loved all of them, and never once asked you to pick just one.
My best friend from middle school – let’s call him darkrydinjuggalo (because that’s literally what he called himself online in 2001, and no, he doesn’t regret it one bit) – was the first person who showed me what a platonic ride-or-die could look like.
We met when we were awkward – me at 13, him at 14 – and immediately bonded over sarcasm and sadness.
There was no “will they or won’t they,” no unresolved tension hiding behind long glances. We built something quieter. Stronger. The kind of connection where you can say things like “I’m not okay,” or “I think I messed this up,” and not lose your person in the process. It wasn’t romantic, but it was absolutely love. The kind that steadies you when the rest of your life is tipping sideways.
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When my mom recently got a cancer diagnosis, he didn’t try to say something poetic. He just stayed on the phone with me in silence until I could breathe again and asked me if I wanted support or solutions. That’s what friendship looks like when it’s stripped down to its bones: presence, without a performance.
We’ve had our stretches – months, even years – where life pulled us in different directions. But lately, we’ve kept up with long-distance check-ins and rambling voice notes about trauma, healing and weirdly specific podcast episodes. He remembers the parts of me I forget. And he defends me in those quiet, infuriatingly understated ways that make you cry alone in your car when You’ve Got a Friend by James Taylor comes on.
Then there’s jukeboxhero69 (yes, that’s what he went by). Another platonic male bestie. Another reminder that this kind of connection isn’t a fluke. We survived the beep test, mandatory line dancing in gym class (why?), and the emotional minefield that is adolescence. We helped each other through family upheaval, heartbreak and all the ways we thought we were failing at being human.
Once, during a particularly brutal season of life, I texted him something like, “I think I’m too much.” He replied, “But that’s why you need people who won’t ask you to shrink.” It was the kind of response that didn’t fix everything – but reminded me I didn’t have to be less to be loved.
Even when life got loud – moves, motherhood, grief – we found our way back. He’s the kind of friend who picks up the phone when I call upset over nothing and everything, and somehow makes me laugh while telling me the truth I didn’t want to hear. The good kind of annoying.
These friendships – with people I might have dated in some alternate universe, but didn’t – have given me more space to be fully myself than many of my romantic relationships ever have. And lately, I’ve been wondering why that is.
It’s not that romantic relationships are inherently less safe or more controlling. But they often come with expectations, roles and unspoken obligations that quietly shape who we think we need to be. There’s pressure to be desirable, to be the one, to meet needs we haven’t even named yet. It’s not always toxic. But it can make the truth feel expensive.
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In contrast, my closest platonic friendships – especially with people I might traditionally be expected to date – feel like exercises in mutual autonomy. There’s less performance. More permission. We don’t need each other to be perfect. We just need each other to be honest.
And that’s where I think Harry got it wrong.
Because yes, the sex part might sometimes get in the way. Let’s not pretend attraction is a non-factor in every case. But the deeper truth is this: Real friendship teaches you how to love someone without needing to possess them.
We don’t have rituals for this kind of love. No engagement parties. No anniversaries. No “we made it through the mental breakdown of 2020” celebration dinner. But maybe we should. Maybe we should stop treating friendship like the runner-up prize to romance. Because sometimes it’s the main event.
I still believe in romantic love. But the best relationships in my life haven’t always been the ones with the highest emotional ROI. Sometimes, they’ve been the ones with the dumbest usernames, the longest-running inside jokes and the deepest sense of “you don’t have to earn this.”
So no offence, Harry. But some of us figured it out. Those friendships are the love stories I’m most proud of. The ones I’ll be bragging about when I’m 85, full of porch wine and still emotional about the Buffy the Vampire Slayer finale.
Kelly Young lives in Kelowna, B.C.
