Many lifelong friendships start with a hint of intimidation, and that’s exactly how it was with Nichola and me. We were 18, in our first year of university, and had a few French classes together. I didn’t know her name and had never heard her speak English, but with her wild curls and warm, curious gaze, she stood out. I assumed she’d be too cool to hang out with someone like me.
Then one weekend, at a grimy student union bar, alcohol broke the ice and our guard came down. Nods in the hallway turned into cheerful greetings, then shared meals in the café, followed by nights out and nursing hangovers together in front of the TV in our rundown student houses.
She was from Derry, I was from Yorkshire, and we bonded over being far from home, not quite fitting into the cliques forming around us, and—like most students in the ‘90s—never having any money. If one of us came into some cash—from a part-time job, a birthday gift, or a lenient bank manager—we both had money. Before our autumn term grants even cleared, we’d rush out to buy something new to wear, just to lift our spirits, surviving on tea, toast, and £1 pints until the next windfall.
A couple of years later, we became friends with Emma (not her real name), and the three of us navigated life’s milestones together. Nichola had her first baby the same year I came out as gay. We supported each other through relationship changes, career shifts, house moves, and family dramas. Her successes felt like our own, and we felt each other’s sorrows as if they were ours.
Once we were “proper grown-ups,” Emma and I would spend Sundays at Nichola’s house with her, her husband, and their two kids. We called it “Sunday club”: cooking a roast together, gossiping, cracking jokes, and dancing in the kitchen to songs from our youth. I had found a piece of heaven and didn’t realize it until it was gone.
The call came from Emma on a hot summer afternoon. Glancing at my phone, I thought it was last-minute chat about our upcoming holiday to Spain—we were due to leave in two weeks for Sunday club abroad. But Nichola had died suddenly and unexpectedly; there was nothing anyone could have done.
Hearing the news was the strangest, most terrifying experience of my life. The shock and panic of my grief felt primal. I had been heartbroken years earlier when my grandmothers died, but that felt like the natural order of things—dying in old age. Nichola’s death was extraordinary, alien. It didn’t make sense; it couldn’t be true. We had been texting just the day before, we had plans that weekend, holiday shopping to do. It was a random Wednesday—how could such an ordinary day become so significant in an instant? The day she died is like a dark, misshapen puzzle piece that doesn’t fit into the bright, happy, silly picture of the life we shared. I remember it with horrifying clarity.
In the days and weeks that followed, Emma and I set aside our own grief to focus on Nichola’s family. They were hit hardest by her loss, especially her young sons. Along with other relatives, we kept things running and handled the agonizing paperwork. I wrote and read a tribute at her funeral on behalf of her friends, and took on the task of canceling the holiday. The travel company was awful, treating me like I was trying to commit fraud. They demanded to speak to Nichola’s devastated husband and asked for details locked in her work email. I remember scanning her passport and death certificate just to secure a possible refund—nothing makes the truth hit harder than plain English, in ink, on official paper.
Her home felt completely different—the rooms larger, emptier, echoing. It was like a bad dream, really, except I never woke up.Busying myself with practical matters was a way to cope, but if anything, it only postponed dealing with Nichola’s death. Stepping away from the immediate circle of mourners was hard. The world looked just the same, yet my heart felt hollowed out—the depth of my grief impossible to explain to anyone outside.
When we think about other people’s grief, we tend to measure it against the natural hierarchy of relationships. As a society, we understand how devastating it is to lose a family member; it needs no explanation, even for those who may have held grudges. Her children would grow up without their mother, her husband lost the love of his life, and as a daughter and sister, she was irreplaceable. Losses like these are life-altering. But a friendship is harder to define. What right did I have to grieve so deeply when I had other friends?
The intensity of my sadness seemed to puzzle people who didn’t know her. They’d ask how close we were, how long we’d known each other, how often we met. I felt I had to somehow justify it, to emphasize how much she meant to me. I started to feel guilty, as though I wasn’t entitled to be so broken when those closer to her had their worlds torn apart.
After losing a family member, people give you space for months, but Emma and I had to return to work. I was granted one week off from freelancing; Emma sat at her desk fighting tears, struggling to focus. We weren’t ready, but grief is inconvenient for others and comes with a time limit—your sadness makes them uncomfortable.
The empty spaces in my life revealed themselves slowly. One less birthday message arrives, a fresh piece of gossip goes unshared, my calendar has more gaps, and activities we once enjoyed together feel emptier. One of the first things Nichola and I would do when we met was critique each other’s outfits. Even now, when I buy something new, I try to imagine her reaction. Emma does the same.
Maybe we underestimate the grief of friends because “friend” is such a broad term—it can mean anything from a coworker to a soulmate, giving no hint of the significance you hold in each other’s lives. Friends play different roles: the wise one, the confidant, the life of the party, the planner, to name a few. Some fill many roles at once, while others specialize. I miss Nichola’s calmness and her gift for empathy; she talked so many of us down from the edge. I miss being her sounding board and having my opinion trusted completely. There’s no greater honor than being someone’s go-to person. I miss our Sundays together.
Grieving a friend is more than just mourning their death. Friendships are ongoing conversations, evolving shared histories. They begin before and often outlast romances, enduring through births, deaths, and divorces; our friends see every version of us, hold our secrets, back up our stories. Now, some of my most formative years feel like they need a footnote—but that confirmation will never come.
As a friend, you might doubt your place. Nichola’s bond with her family was innate, unspoken, a love obvious to everyone, but I began to wonder: was I a good enough friend? Did she know how much she meant to us, that Emma and I thought of her as a sister?
In our 25 years of friendship, Nichola and I argued only twice (both times my fault), but decades of guilt came rushing back: messages I forgot to reply to, plans I missed, times I was inconsiderate and never called out on it. I had run out of time to make amends.My proof of affection came too late, in a eulogy she would never hear. I spend sleepless nights trying to recall the sound of her voice or looking at the few photos we have together. We were so busy living that we rarely stopped to capture it—I wish we had paused more often to appreciate what we had. The future seemed full of promise until it ran out.
Anyone I speak to who has lost a close friend describes the strange emptiness of becoming a footnote in someone’s life, and the aimless nature of their grief. There’s no guidebook, and the often-cited seven stages of grief oversimplify the reality. Friendships are as meaningful as family ties, built on shared moments. As Emma told me, “Nichola wasn’t just some two-dimensional friend who could be replaced.” When you lose a friend, a part of you is missing—we should remember that.
So how do you cope? It’s the old cliché: one day at a time. Emma and I keep Nichola’s memory alive by talking about her often and embracing her positivity and energy in our own lives. We channel the pride and love she would feel for her sons as they grow into remarkable young men. In everything I do, I aim to make her proud. Nothing feels quite the same as it used to, but I know Nichola would hate to see us in pain. The best tribute is to live as fully and happily as we can. Her life may have ended, but her influence lives on, and our friendship feels brighter than ever.
The Glorious Dead by Justin Myers is published on 18 September by Renegade Books (£18.99). To support the Guardian, order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply. Justin Myers will be in conversation at Waterstones, Leeds, on 23 September and at Social Refuge/Queer Lit in Manchester on 30 September.
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Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about the experience of losing your best friend framed as It was a bad dream but I never woke up
General Beginner Questions
Q What does It was a bad dream but I never woke up mean in this context
A It describes the surreal nightmarish feeling of losing your best friend You keep expecting to wake up from the pain and have things go back to normal but the reality is permanent
Q Is it normal to grieve a friendship this deeply
A Absolutely A best friend is often a chosen family The grief can be as intense as losing a romantic partner or relative because youre mourning shared history trust and daily support
Q What are the most common emotions I might feel
A You might feel profound sadness anger confusion betrayal loneliness and even guilt Its a rollercoaster and all these feelings are valid
Q How long does it take to get over losing a best friend
A Theres no set timeline Grief isnt something you just get over Its a process of learning to live with the loss The intense pain will lessen with time but the memory may always be with you
Deeper Advanced Questions
Q Why does this loss sometimes hurt more than a romantic breakup
A Best friendships are often built on a foundation of unconditional support without the pressures of romance They can represent a purer longerlasting bond making their end feel like a loss of a part of your identity
Q I see my former friend moving on happily Why does that make it so much harder
A It reinforces the feeling of the bad dream Their apparent happiness can feel like a betrayal and make you question your own worth and the authenticity of the entire friendship deepening the sense of isolation
Q How do I deal with all the shared memories and inside jokes that now feel painful
A This is one of the hardest parts Allow yourself to feel the sadness those memories bring In time you may be able to reframe themnot as losses but as evidence of a beautiful chapter that was real even if its over
Q Will I ever be able to trust someone that deeply again
A Its a common fear
