Lost in the City, Found in the Group Chat
Two’s a company, four’s a community.
We leave our hometowns with dreams and overnight bags, heading into big cities where nobody knows your name unless it’s your username. Back home, friendships happened through osmosis — school corridors, after-school walks, awkward sixth form discos.
But London? It’s different. Everyone’s moving fast, from A to B with AirPods in and eyes down. We’re told we need to ‘put ourselves out there’ — through bread-making workshops, climbing clubs, queer cinema nights in Dalston. But after a 6am wake-up and a District line delay, the last thing you want to do is talk to strangers about sourdough starters.
It’s not that we don’t have friends — we do. The best ones, even. But they’re scattered. Living across counties. Careers. Realities. And maintaining closeness is like playing ‘Race Across the World,’ but with train strikes and annual leave limits.
There are work friends, of course. Ones who know way too much about your dating life by day two. You see them more than anyone else. But would you go to a gig with them? A holiday? Maybe not. Still, they count.
So we hold tight to what we have. The group chat becomes sacred. It’s a life line, a laugh bank, a live commentary thread on our own lives. It’s where you can take off the mask (not the FFP2 kind). Where you can be quiet. Or loud. Or weird. Or just real.
And when you do finally see them — whether it’s Blank Street coffee catchups, or midweek FaceTimes — the world softens. You exhale. You remember who you are outside of your job title or your Hinge profile.
Because maybe, in a world full of curated forum chats, awkward encounters, forced workshops and networking tags on apps, the best friendships aren’t loud or showy or need to be hashtagged all the time — they are constant and perfect.