More Than Friends, Less Than Lovers

That night, you sent another message saying you’d just finished overtime and were exhausted, asking if I could come out for some shao kao. I glanced at the time—it was nearly eleven. After a few seconds of hesitation, I threw on a coat and headed out.

The lights of the barbecue stall were dim and yellow. You were sitting there, hair a bit messy, tie hanging loosely. You smiled when you saw me: "Still you. Always there when I call."

I sat down and poured you a beer. You told me your boss chewed you out today, the project was delayed again, and your girlfriend picked a fight over the phone because you never spend time with her. As you spoke, your eyes grew red.

I didn't say anything; I just placed a grilled chicken wing onto your plate. You took a bite, sniffed, and said, "You know, sometimes I feel like you're the only person in the world who truly gets me."

I smiled but didn't respond to that.

This relationship of ours has lasted many years. When we met, we were just kids in our early twenties; now we’re both in our thirties. Over these dozen or so years, we’ve watched each other grow from green to mature, go from being single to being in a pair, back to being single, and then paired up again.

Someone once asked me: what exactly is the relationship between us?

I thought about it for a long time and realized there isn't a precise word for it. We aren’t lovers; we’ve never actually been together. But we aren't "just friends" either. Friends don’t answer the phone at 3:00 AM without a second thought; they don’t take three days off work just to drink with you through a breakup; they don’t quietly bring meals to the hospital when your mother is admitted.

We are that kind of existence—a bit more than friends, a bit less than lovers.

When we were younger, I wondered if we should be together. We were both single then, and everyone around us was egging us on, saying we were such a perfect match and asking why we wouldn't give it a try.

I thought about it seriously. What would life be like if I were with you?

It would probably be happy. After all, we talk so well—from astronomy and geography to the most trivial household chores, from life's grand ideals to neighborhood gossip. We never run out of things to say. You get my jokes, I get your nuances; when we're together, it's never awkward or boring.

But I also knew that some things that are virtues in a friend can become flaws in a partner. For instance, your casual, easy-going nature—as a friend, I see it as being "free-spirited," but as a partner, I might find you unreliable. Or my sensitivity—as a friend, you see it as being "perceptive," but as a partner, you might find me too "high-maintenance."

More importantly, I was afraid of losing you.

Lovers can break up; spouses can divorce. But if we are friends—if we are zhiji, soulmates for a lifetime—then we will never lose each other.

Once, when you were drunk, you grabbed my hand and said, "Actually, I really regret it. I should have pursued you back then."

I patted the back of your hand and said, "You've had too much to drink."

You didn't say anything, you just looked at me with something in your eyes I couldn't quite decipher.

Later, you got married. The bride was beautiful and had a great personality. At the wedding, you held her hand as you came over to toast me, smiling and telling me I had to come and "disturb the bridal chamber" later.

I smiled too, raised my glass, and said, "Happy wedding."

That night I went home and sat alone on the balcony smoking for a long time. It would be a lie to say I wasn't sad, but saying I was "sad" doesn't feel quite right either. It was a complex feeling—not jealousy, not regret, just a faint sense of loss. Like an autumn wind blowing against your face; it doesn't hurt, but it leaves your heart feeling hollow.

After you got married, we contacted each other less. I knew you needed to focus more on your family, and I needed my own life. We were no longer "on-call" for one another, but I knew that if something truly happened, you would be the first to appear, and so would I.

Your wife knew about me. In the beginning, she was a bit wary. If I were her, I would be too. Who wouldn't mind their husband having a female friend of over ten years who is that close?

But you explained it to her clearly. You told her I was like a brother to you—closer than blood. You told her if something were ever going to happen between us, it would have happened long ago; we wouldn't have waited until now.

Eventually, she slowly accepted it. Sometimes she even takes the initiative to suggest you ask me out for dinner. She said she can tell that you are at your most relaxed around me—you don't have to put on a front or pretend; you can just be your truest self.

Once, she told me privately, "Actually, I'm quite envious of you. Some of the things he can say to you, he can't even say to me."

I smiled and said, "It’s different. You are his wife, his closest person. I am just his friend."

She shook her head and said, "Sometimes, a zhiji is harder to find than a partner."

That sentence stayed with me for a long time.

It’s true. A soulmate is harder to find than a spouse. A partner is the person you live your life with, but a zhiji is the person who understands your soul. These two roles sometimes overlap, and sometimes they cannot.

We were lucky enough to find the person who understands our souls; we just didn't have the "fate" to be a couple.

But this is fine too, isn't it?

If we had become a couple, we might have ended up in endless arguments over the mundane chores of daily life. We might have been at each other's throats over who washes the dishes or mops the floor. The "understanding" we once had might have been ground down to nothing by the friction of in-laws, children's education, mortgages, and car loans.

But because we are zhiji, we don't have those worries. We don't have to face the trifles of domestic life or carry the burdens and obligations of marriage. We only need to provide a hug when the other needs it, pour a glass of wine, and say, "I understand."

Isn't that good?

A few days ago, I saw a quote: "If some people cannot be lovers or spouses, then let them be zhiji for a lifetime." I sent it to you. You replied with a smiley face and two words: "Exactly."

Just two words, but I understood.

The unspoken understanding between us long ago transcended the boundaries of language. Sometimes a look, an expression, or even a punctuation mark is enough for us to know what the other wants to say.

This chemistry was cultivated slowly over a decade. It wasn't intentional; it was natural. Like breathing—you don't have to think about it or work for it; it just exists.

So that night, at the barbecue stall, you asked me: "Do you think we'll always be like this, for the rest of our lives?"

I said, "Probably."

You laughed and said, "What do you mean 'probably'? Give me a straight answer."

I laughed too. "Yes. This life, and the next life, we will."

You nodded with satisfaction and downed your beer in one gulp.

In my heart, I know we can't literally stay exactly like this forever. You will grow old, and so will I. Your children will grow up, and my life will change. A day will come when we can no longer be "on-call" in the middle of the night or drink until dawn at a roadside stall.

But I know that no matter what happens, no matter how many years pass, we have a place in each other's hearts. That place is not for a lover, nor for a relative—it is an indefinable existence.

It is a bit deeper than friendship, a bit lighter than romantic love, and a bit more special than family.

It isn't about possession or dependence; it isn't dramatic or full of grand vows.

It’s just that in this vast world, in this long life, there is one person who truly knows you.

You don't need to explain, you don't need to mask yourself, you don't need to be cautious, and you don't need to worry about losing them. You only need to be yourself, and that person will be there—neither too close nor too far, never leaving, never abandoning.

That is enough.

Truly, that is enough.

So, if we can't be lovers or a married couple, let's just be zhiji for a lifetime. What do you think?

I think it’s quite wonderful.