You called me from the old city, chatting away like a motivational speaker about this thing called friendship and its levels. You broke it down into five tiers, drawing a pretty clear line between “friends” and “acquaintances.” Out of all that, one idea stuck with me the most: unconditional.

Stepping into this city, I’ve been lucky enough to experience that “unconditional” from friends.

There’s this girl who barely knew me back in our hometown, yet she flung her door wide open, welcomed me into her home, and shared her room with me. She knew living together would mean watching out for each other, compromising, and splitting things down the middle.

Another friend, someone I’d only met once last summer, reached out first. She threw her arms around me, dragged me out for food, shopping, all sorts of stuff—even offered to lend me money without a clue what the future holds.

Then there’s a college buddy. Four years, not a word between us. But somehow we got close, and she took me in during those moments when I had no idea what to do with myself. She cooked meals that felt like medicine for my soul every time I lost my way.

And there’s one person—every time I’m drained, pushed to the edge, I dial their number like it’s second nature. I tell myself I’ll only call if it’s absolutely, desperately urgent. They’re the kind of person who lets my tears fall freely, naturally, and leaves me feeling lighter.

There are more—too many to count. So many that those relationships stuck in tiers three, four, or five can’t even compare. And every time someone treats me with cold calculation, these friends are there, smoothing over the ugly sadness with their presence.

Truth is, the song Jar of Hearts doesn’t have a shred of meaning tied to friendship. At its core, it’s about a love that can’t move forward because the guy won’t commit one way or the other. They’re caught in this blurry, undefined connection—not quite this, not quite that.

I was listening to it while sitting with an older friend at Đen Đá, staring out at the street with two cups of bright green tea that looked lively but lacked any real depth. She said we were like two dolls in a giant display case, keeping an eye on the motorbikes for the security guard. Passersby probably wondered what kind of oversized dolls we were. It was a gentle Saturday afternoon—cool, with a hint of rain.

What hit me most from our 30-minute chat was your take on finding a best friend in love. That kind of bond—full, solid, and easygoing. I told you friendship’s this magical thing. Even if you lose touch for a while, you can pick right back up, talking about a million things, being yourself like no one else could ever take their place. And if you could love someone like that? Nothing in this world could top it. To be honest with each other, no matter what changes come.

It’s just a matter of turning love into friendship. Taking those early sparks, that initial pull, and letting them settle into something familiar, rational, equal, and open. When stuff comes up, you’d know how to talk it out, really hear each other. Even if you catch feelings for someone else or hang out with others, it’d feel cramped—because no one else could share with you the way they do. Like a friend of mine once wrote in a letter.

Here’s the thing: both of us, talking today, are still out there looking for our other half. And we’ve both got scars—from love and from friendship.

After all that talk, it hit me: everyone, man or woman, craves that unconditional love, that deep connection where you just get each other.