Who cares if he loves me not? My friendships are the most romantic relationships of my life

Hello, you glorious angel sent straight from heaven! Who gave you permission to be so unbelievably beautiful? It’s too much!” These words greet me as I walk into my local cafe to meet, not some smooth-talking Lothario, but a good friend. We spend several minutes exchanging admiration for each other’s outfits, our make-up free faces, our general energy and “aura”, all the while engaging in a deep embrace and occasionally stroking each other’s hair, like chimpanzees affectionately grooming their mates.

This is not some heartfelt reunion after a long spell apart. It is, rather, a fairly typical encounter – I see Steph at least once a week, usually more. But I’ve noticed of late that my interactions with her and the other friends in my close network are all imbued with the kind of romance I always assumed would only come when I met my future husband.

Perhaps it sounds over the top – I’m sure plenty of innocent bystanders often think as much – but, then again, why deprive yourself of the pleasure of making someone happy out of some misplaced sense of decorum?

It’s a view that’s echoed in Romanticise Your Life, a new book by Beth McColl that extols the virtues of finding joy in the everyday. There’s a whole chapter on friendship that opens thus: “For most of us, it’s a no-brainer that the greatest loves of our lives aren’t only the people that we date – they’re our friends, too. Our mates are our favourite people, the ones who know us best, our companions on the journey of life, our ride or dies. And yet, how often do we really take the time to think of them in that context? How often do we take a moment to gaze at them with starry-eyed gratitude, wondering quite what we did to deserve their presence in our life year after year, through crises and celebrations?”

This, I realised upon reading, is something I’ve already been doing for years. I’ve pretty much always practised this kind of appreciation and platonic romance within my (mostly but not exclusively) female friendships – but there’s also been a marked uptick since I moved to a coastal town 18 months ago. Perhaps it’s because, for the first time in my life, I’ve found a true sense of local community. Perhaps it’s because, single and in my mid-thirties, I’ve intentionally bonded with women in similar positions. Certainly, without the distractions of live-in partners and kids, there’s plenty of time and energy with which to water those tentative buds of friendship until they flourish and bloom, anchored by deep, expansive roots.

Whatever the reason, when I look back at the past couple of years, very few of my most swoon-worthy encounters have been with the men I was dating. I don’t even blame them. It would be tough to compete with the night I had to follow a mini scavenger hunt – set up in one of my friend’s flats – to find a bunch of lilies, bottle of pink prosecco and “congratulations” helium balloon after I got a new job. Or the day I awoke to find coffee, Swedish buns and daffodils outside my door, left by my bestie after a tough week. Or the time I returned home the day after a horrible drink-spiking incident, to discover a mate with a key had let herself in to drop off an emergency “feel better” kit.

And then there are the love letters – or the modern-day equivalent. Odes to my beauty and kindness, left on WhatsApp messages­­. Long, emotive monologues cataloguing my every good attribute via gloriously meandering voice notes, the space in which my closest friends and I share everything from the banality of the daily grind to our deepest traumas and lifelong dreams.

Looking back at some of these exchanges to write this piece, I practically melted at the heart-wrenching romance of it all. I pity the boyfriend who has to follow messages like: “You are so gorgeous it is impossible. Truly”; “I love you and I want the world for you!”; “Thank you for always seeing me. I would be lost without you”. Or, epic as any sonnet, this received before a work meeting I was fretting about: “Remind yourself how WONDERFUL AND TALENTED AND AMAZING you are, because you are all those things (as well as INCREDIBLY GORGEOUS AND A F***ING INCREDIBLE SINGER AND ACTRESS AND FRIEND).” Shakespeare, eat your heart out.

These people show up to open mic nights where I’m practising my fledgling ukulele skills. They cook dinner and bring wine, surprise me with lifts from the station when it’s raining, and organise mini-breaks with hot tubs. In the words of recent Grammy award-winner Miley Cyrus, while “I can buy myself flowers”, I haven’t had to in the past six months. I’ve had bunches around the house for much of that time: all gifted; all by friends, not lovers.

If all this makes me sound like a spoilt princess, I’m doing my level best to be equally generous in return. I’m perhaps not quite so naturally thoughtful as some of my circle (I’m looking at Kat, she of the aforementioned scavenger hunt), but in my own way I like to think I’m wooing them back. I’ve been known to leave a gift bag in a friend’s porch when she passed her yoga exam; trawl the high street looking for the perfect Christmas decorations after my pal revealed she’d lost hers in a house move; write a line in a song dedicated to the women I call “sunflowers”, such is the colour they bring to my life.

What I am getting at is this: find the right friends, and there’s no need to wait for a date or a sexual relationship to experience true romance. In fact, in many ways it’s easier to give and receive abundant, unbridled love within a friendship, rather than a courtship. Free from the fear of potential rejection or abandonment, you don’t have to hold back or protect your heart.

We were all made to love and be loved, and being single is no reason not to experience the very thing that makes us human. So shower your friends in compliments, whip them up a three-course meal, wow them with a small token you know they’ll adore – and cherish the purest form of romance you’re ever likely to experience.

Xural.com