The curious arithmetic of friendship: Why the numbers always change

Do you remember when having a “best friend” wasn’t just important, but a matter of honour? Losing one felt like a personal catastrophe; keeping one meant navigating secret handshakes, playground politics, and endless disputes over who was actually number one. Each friendship, each falling out, each reunion marked time in a way no calendar ever could.

As children, friends were plentiful and provisional. We collected them like marbles — on the playground, in the bus, outside tuition classes. Today’s best friend might have been tomorrow’s sworn enemy, only to be reclaimed by lunchtime. Friendships multiplied through childhood and early teens, fuelled by proximity and shared boredom — and if you had a tennis ball, a rubber ball, a football, or a cricket bat, you were instantly friend material. We shared tiffin, swapped notes, and sometimes drank from each other’s water bottles. Every small act — lending a pencil, defending someone in a scuffle, laughing at the same silly joke — was a bond forged, a story in the making.

Looking back, what didn’t matter then is striking. Status, religion, caste, or wealth never entered the equation. Friendship was instinctive, unfiltered, and blissfully unconcerned with labels. We could bond over music, films, games, or just endless chatter. In all probability, it was the last time relationships were that uncomplicated.

Then came adolescence. Circles tightened, and the number of friends dropped, but the bonds deepened. Loyalty became tangible, and secrets were exchanged like currency. This was also the age of the Best Friend — a title worn with pride and defended with alarming seriousness. Almost always same-gender, non-negotiable, and exclusive, best friends were confidants, keepers of secrets, and witnesses to early versions of ourselves. Trust was absolute, and plausibility never questioned.

By and large, friends shared similar tastes — but sometimes, people gravitated toward each other in the most unlikely pairings. Strangely, opposites could balance each other, challenge each other, and become lifelong confidants.

I remember classrooms where the greatest joy was sitting next to our group of best friends — and the greatest mystery was why teachers insisted on separating us. Seating plans were rearranged with precision, as if learning alongside our closest allies was dangerously distracting.

Those school friendships were rarely open-door affairs. Our group was a closed circle, almost a private club. New boys joining the school didn’t just wander in; they had to qualify. Sometimes there was a trial period — did he laugh at the right jokes, keep secrets, pass the unspoken loyalty tests? Other times, entry required a recommendation. It sounded ridiculous then, but at the time it felt entirely necessary. Friendship was serious business.

Some best friendships made ambitious plans early: We’ll go to the same college. We’ll always live close by. And sometimes it actually happened. Some friends didn’t just share a college or a city, but a country, even a continent. Others drifted away quietly, without drama, as life simply unfolded.

By adulthood — mid-30s to early 40s — friendships tended to stabilise. This was the prime. Groups, dinners, birthdays, weddings, and outings were plentiful. Friends knew our spouses, our children, and our stories. We had history, photographs, and countless shared memories. Often, when husbands bonded, their wives somehow became good friends, and vice versa. These days, friends and couples travel for holidays together, laughing over mishaps, sharing experiences, and discovering new corners of the world.

After that, the numbers begin to fall again. Not suddenly, not tragically — just steadily. Geography intervenes, careers demand attention, family responsibilities expand, and energy contracts. Eventually, we end up with a handful of friends. Out of those, perhaps one or two are what we truly call good friends — the kind who don’t need constant maintenance or explanations.

Along the way, it helps to be clear about what friends are not. They are not extended family, though sometimes they feel closer. They are not acquaintances — people we like and meet often, but would hesitate to call at 2am. They are not workplace colleagues, even friendly ones, whose presence is shaped by hierarchy and circumstance.

Friends are chosen, re-chosen, and sometimes quietly released.

My aunt used to say: If you have a friend, treat them as such. Never let them know too much — for if one day your friend becomes your foe, the whole world your secret will know. It sounded dramatic when I was younger; with age, it sounds prudent.

We all need friends, don’t we? And how many is enough? Is it a numbers game, or a depth game? One enough, or none if family fills the space?

Living in the UAE adds another layer to this reflection. Back home, friendships often felt closer by default. Proximity did the heavy lifting, time stretched, and people dropped in. Here, in a transient, fast-moving population, friendships are different. Everyone is wrapped up in work, family, logistics, visas, the next move. Yet friendships can also form faster — compressed by shared displacement, nostalgia, and reinvention.

Some friendships remain situational; some surprise with their depth. Occasionally, a friendship evolves into something more. Many people end up marrying their friend — or their best friend — perhaps the strongest reason to choose lasting companionship over fleeting excitement.

In the end, friendships are less about permanence and more about presence: who shows up, who stays kind when things are messy, who remembers who we are when we are still becoming.

There is, inevitably, a quieter truth at the far end of friendship — one we don’t talk about much. Sometimes friends don’t drift away; sometimes they simply leave this world. When that happens, what remains isn’t sadness so much as gratitude — for having known them, for having been known.

We may lose friends as we grow older, but perhaps that isn’t loss at all — just refinement. What remains is lighter to carry, easier to hold, and infinitely more precious. And if we are lucky, it is enough. As it always has been, and always will be.

Michael Guzder is Senior Vice-President of Education at GEMS and a former Principal