My Definition of Platonic Love
Plato’s Symposium is a Classical text on the meaning of Love. This fictional masterpiece is set during a drinking party in the home of the philosopher Socrates, and throughout the course of the night, his guests — all influential public figures of Ancient Greece — are invited to give a speech on their definition of love as a form of entertainment. Reading it had me thinking: what would I say, if I were asked? The very thought of having to explain an emotion so immense I can barely find words for stresses me out. But I realised the kind of love I’d speak of is one I am fortunately very familiar with, yet also so extraordinary and unique I have yet to meet anyone, as far as I know, who has experienced anything remotely similar. And that is the love I have for my best friend.
At school there was one girl I didn’t like. She was in the year above me and wore a permanent screwface which kept me from going anywhere near her. I knew her as “The Egyptian”; she was our only Egyptian pupil and that fascinated me to the extent you’d think she was the only Egyptian in the world. I didn’t like her. I got the impression she didn’t like me.
One day my dance teacher told me to ask her for help learning a routine we were preparing for our annual Chance to Dance show. With dreaded reluctance, I approached her and was relieved to find she was alright. Quite friendly, actually. She told me I picked up the choreography quickly, and the next day as she passed me in the corridors she screeched “Love you!” and blew me a kiss. Fickle as it may seem, anyone who knows me will tell you that when someone who gives off the impression of hating the general public shows a particular interest in me, I become hooked. It was like a switch had flipped, and from that moment on I adored her. I scrabbled for the golden attention of ‘The Egyptian’ and revelled in the fact that someone so exclusive had told me she loved me after one day.
With a 90/10% effort on my part (admittedly), we fast became close. And I knew straight away that I had the best friend in the world. I wore this status with pride like a badge and yet I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was about her that I liked. There was just something. Everything. I had no idea why we were friends, aside from the fact I wouldn’t have it any other way. As far as I was concerned we were opposites moving in completely different circles, yet before I’d even explored her personality, I was already fully committed to having this girl play a starring role in my life. It was like being desperate to sign a contract I hadn’t read. Many expressed confusion at this new unlikely pairing. Still, for some reason we were thick as thieves and loved each other’s company. I started to bunk my free periods in favour of spending time with her and her cousin, and a couple of epiphanies occurred during this time:
1. The first time she made me laugh. As I cracked up I thought, “A bonus! She’s actually funny!” Weird that I didn’t even know or care about this beforehand. Even weirder now considering she’s one of the most hysterical people I know.
2. The moment I realised the reason I had her on such a pedestal was because I was in love with her (if this hasn’t already become glaringly obvious to everyone). This was the reason I’d been infatuated since we were little more than strangers. We’d been studying Captain Corelli’s Mandolin in English, and Carlos Guercio’s chapter four speech resonated with everything I felt for her. She made me experience the cliché of wanting to be a better person — the best person I could be for her so that my love was justified. I remember confirming it to myself on the way to the shops one evening. I even remember there was a glorious sunset, the colours of a Fruit Salad. As I looked up at the sky in a moment of dramatic redemption, it was clear. It doesn’t get much gay-er than that.
I didn’t tell her this at the time. She was actually the last friend I came out to, because her opinion of me meant the most and I was nervous of a negative reaction. I offloaded the double-confession on my 20th birthday, more than three years after I’d started seeing girls and by which time my love for her had transcended to an (ironically) deeper, platonic form. I was naïve to think she wasn’t already well-aware I liked girls, and was just waiting for me to tell her myself. I’d say my lovebites were from boys when she knew full well they were they weren’t, but just tactically chose not to question me. The night of this twin-revelation, she said she’d kiss me. Despite the fact I’d ceased to have romantic feelings for her years back, and even though she’s “SO straight” (her favourite reminder). If that isn’t friendship, I don’t know what is. Kissing someone you’ve idolised like a goddess, been infatuated with like a lover, and have grown to love like a sister is an unusual experience that could go either way. I can honestly say that for me, at the time, it was the best kiss I’d ever had because it was the purest. Although if the seventeen year old me hadn’t already died, I’d say that would have definitely killed her.
This girl is the only person I’ve fallen for who hasn’t hurt me. Heartbreak either stems from a relationship breakdown or rejection, and thankfully I never pursued ours. I think I grew content with the gradual knowledge that we were already each other’s ‘number ones’ and so our bond couldn’t get much stronger anyway. When new romantic interests took over, my love for her just merged into a new kind. I never fell out of love, the energy simply altered.
There’s a statistic that states no girl is ever one hundred percent sorry when their best friend fails; healthy competition combined with feminine bitchiness apparently always results in a satisfying feeling of superiority, however slight. In this case, the statistic is false. I see my girl as an extension of me and want nothing but the best for her. She is one of the few people I’d die for. And I can hand on my heart say that in the six years of our friendship, I have never once said a bad word about her. If you’re a mutual friend of ours reading this and trying to rack your brains to find a time I’ve bitched, good luck, because it has never happened.
To this day, she’ll still express incredulity, wonder and an adorable sense of privilege when it comes to my love for her, because neither of us understand the basis of its irrevocability. I still have no idea what it was that kept me magnetised to her after the pleasant surprise of our initial interaction drew me in. I don’t feel like I chose her, but that I had no choice. How is it that every jigsaw piece of the character I’d set my sights on — my ‘polar opposite’ who I knew so little about — just so happened to fit perfectly with all of mine, and better than anyone else’s? (Except for our telephone voices… we still haven’t mastered how to not talk over one another, which makes for frustrating phone calls). And even though I was right in thinking she didn’t like me either at first (“Who is this confident BRUV,” she used to think, “who stands on the back of her loafers, always has one jumper sleeve hanging off her shoulder and is so confident jamming with the older girls?”) she does nothing but pay me back in kind, and our love has blossomed into one of mutual devotion. I know she would do anything for me as well.
In the introduction to the Symposium there is a statement: “Platonic love, in spite of the meaning commonly attributed to it, is a common search for truth and beauty by two persons of the same sex inspired by mutual affection.” And so I think my explanation of love’s purest form is perfect for this context. My girl has been loved like a friend, lover, idol, daughter, sister and more, all by one person. That’s already a five-layer bond that would have to be broken before I’d ever stop, and I know I never will, because it’s unconditional.
(And no, I do not still fancy her).
