I fear I'm doing friendship wrong: why do we lose the art of just hanging out?

The Guardian

18-04-2025

There's a black and white image of the photographer and war correspondent Lee Miller and her friend Tanja Ramm. The two are having breakfast in bed at Miller's studio in Paris, casually reading newspapers. Their faces are framed by untamed hair and they're dressed in cotton shirts, with coffee cups in front of them. The image, captured in 1931, is quiet and intimate. They share a blanket, their arms touch. There's no rush, no urgency. It's a scene about love but, above all, it's about friendship.
When was the last time I lay in bed with a friend like that? For most of us, it was probably during school or university, when staying over or crashing at someone's house was a regular occurrence – sometimes a necessity, but mostly just part of our routines. It kept us close. Staying in a friend's room or apartment felt like being on an island – safe, cosy and fun. It was about whispering, giggling and sharing secrets. And sometimes it was about nothing at all except being together.
As an adult whose usual habitat is a large European city, when I meet friends now, it starts with a text that goes something like: 'Hey, how are you? Would love to see you. Maybe we can grab dinner or drinks?'
Then the struggle begins to find a date. It's a messy process, especially in Berlin. Days pass. Sometimes, weeks. Finally, if we are lucky, the day arrives and we meet – at a restaurant or a bar, somewhere public, where we're expected to behave, sit properly and engage in 'polite' chat. We update each other on our projects, gossip a little, sigh, complain about circumstances at home or work and then we part ways.
Sometimes, a few hours later, or the next morning, I'll send or receive a message: 'I'd missed you. It was so good to see you. We should do this more often.' An honest message, but an empty one at the same time. Because we won't do it more often. We'll continue rushing through our daily lives and responsibilities, fitting each other in where we can.
How close can you really be to someone you only see for a couple of hours every now and then? What can you actually share? In these meetups, we present condensed versions of ourselves. So much of who we really are stays in the dark. We talk. And talking is the only way to feel connected and to bond.
It was simpler as kids and teenagers. After school, back in Leipzig, I'd ask a friend, 'Do you want to come over to play?' or I'd just knock on their door. At university in Berlin, we'd spend all day together on campus or meet after class at one of our homes. Getting together was easy. And it wasn't just about talking. It wasn't sitting across from each other, throwing words back and forth. We'd sit on sofas or the bed or on the floor, watch TV, play games, draw, flip through magazines, do sports, or listen to the latest music. We'd try things for the first time – a cigarette, a drug. We'd dream. We'd sometimes be silent together. It was sweet.
Do we even know how to just be? To sit beside someone in silence, without needing to entertain or update or explain ourselves? I miss that. Friendship doesn't always need a plot.
In her diaries, Brigitte Reimann (1933-1973), one of the icons of East German literature, vividly describes idyllic scenes of friends simply hanging out together. When she was living in Neubrandenburg in her late 30s, one friend – the writer Christa Wolf – would visit spontaneously to check in and just be with her. There was also Juergen Schulz, a young journalist at the local radio station who was 10 years her junior. The two of them would stay up all night listening to jazz records and dancing. I don't think it's a coincidence that the typical toast back then was 'auf die Freundschaft' ('to friendship').
But times have changed. As mature, 21st-century adults, nearly everything has to be scheduled in advance. We meet when we're well composed. If we're not feeling up to it, we cancel. No one knocks on anyone's door spontaneously any more. That would be crazy. Insane, even. We no longer play or fool around. We don't hang out for hours without a plan.
Maybe that's also why some friendships just fade away, and others turn weird. One of the quietest heartbreaks of adulthood is realising that a friend has become indifferent, or no longer wants the best for you. The hardest part is knowing when it's time to let go – especially when you've shared years.
But friendship can't be based only on memories. It's also about energy. And in trying to hold on to old friendships, we often forget how fragile new connections can be. They happen, but it's rare. It's not often that you meet someone new and think, yes, I want to see you again. I want to spend a whole day doing nothing with you. Mostly, it's coffee once or twice, maybe an invitation to a birthday gathering if we manage to overcome the polite distance. People's diaries are already full – with families, work and the handful of old friends they barely manage to keep. There's just not much room left, not emotionally, not practically. So we stick to the friends we already have, even when the contours of those friendships keep changing.
I wonder why I'm thinking about all this now. Perhaps it's because I don't have children or any family structures forcing me into a regulated daily life. I could hang out. I could see friends more often. When the American writer and film-maker Nora Ephron compiled her list of things she would and wouldn't miss at the end of her life, she named her friends twice in the list of things she would.
Ephron was also the person who said: 'It's hard when you don't like someone a friend marries. First of all, it means you pretty much have to confine your friendship to lunch, and I hate lunch.'
I hate lunch too. There's a clear beginning and a clear end. It's a set scenario and my least favourite meeting opportunity of all because there is no room for surprises: you eat, then go back to work. I believe this downgrading to lunch happens not only when a friend marries someone you don't like, but also when a friend has children. Let's be honest: you lose that friend and mourn them. We're supposed to be adults and handle what life throws at us with generosity, empathy and understanding. But it's hard.
And even if you like the person your friend marries, you still have to do lunch because otherwise, you'll never see them again alone. Suddenly, it's always 'dates as couples', where you have to behave even more properly. And there's also this: if you're a woman and your friend is a man, it's very likely that his girlfriend or wife won't love you two spending time alone.
I've always found it difficult to imagine long-term, deep friendships between men and women. There is almost always a moment – spoken or unspoken – when one of you wonders: what if? That doesn't mean anything will happen. But the question will hang in the air. And that changes the dynamic, no matter how much we pretend it doesn't.
Is that already toxic? We're so good now at identifying red flags, drawing boundaries, spotting 'bad, dangerous vibes'. But are we also too quick to call someone toxic just because they're going through something we can't quite deal with?
I've seen friendships fall apart as a result of this and I know it's difficult, but there is beauty in loyalty, when someone still shows up – not for a perfect version of you, but for you just as you are. That's gold. Too often, we confuse support with advice, or think texting back is enough. Real solidarity is quieter. It lives in presence, not performance.
OK, I do remember the last time I lounged in bed with a friend – it was two weeks ago. Maybe that was why I started to think about adult friendships again.
My close friend of 15 years and I were invited to a literary awards ceremony in Cologne. She lives in Berlin and Rome, which means we don't see each other a lot. The organisers of the awards had booked hotel rooms for us – mine on the fourth floor, hers on the first. At the end of the night, we said goodbye in the lift, then paused for a second. 'Shall I come and sleep in your room?' I asked. 'Yes please,' she replied immediately.
I went to my room, put on my pyjamas and waddled through the corridors to her room. We brushed our teeth, made funny faces in the mirror and chatted in bed until our eyes closed. The next morning, we woke up smiling. We had both slept blissfully. I felt safe with her. The room was our island. We stayed in bed talking under the thick, white sheets until I almost missed my train to Berlin.
In the afternoon, I received a text from her: 'It was so cosy in bed this morning. This is how life should be.' Yes. Exactly that. Not lunch.
Carolin Würfel is a writer, screenwriter and journalist who lives in Berlin and Istanbul. She is the author of Three Women Dreamed of Socialism and a regular contributor to Die Zeit