When we each arrived in Philadelphia for medical school, none of us knew what to expect. We had only met once over a 20-minute Zoom call, but our shared identity as gay men gave us an instant connection. David grew up in New Jersey in a Chinese family of doctors, Salman was raised Muslim and spent much of his life in the Middle East, and Korey came from a mixed-race, low-income family in Pittsburgh. Despite our different backgrounds, the connection between us was almost immediate and was solidified on the very first day of orientation when we were harassed on the street for our sexuality. That experience underscored how our shared identity could draw us together and serve as a shield in a world that sometimes felt unwelcoming.
Our apartment quickly became more than just a place to sleep and study. That cramped, secondhand couch, which we wedged through our narrow door on a hot, humid day, became the pulse of our home and the unifying backdrop to our lives in medical school. It was not meant for three, but we squeezed anyway. We would do almost everything on it, including eating, working, laughing, and even falling asleep there many times. Coming home to find one of us on that couch, watching Emily in Paris or Survivor, was an instant sign of comfort. It was a silent invitation to join in, vent about the day, or just sit in shared silence. The couch was our gathering place for laughter, arguments, deep talks, and the intimacy that came from simply living together.
Living together brought a new level of openness and vulnerability, with every moment holding an opportunity for connection and deeper understanding. For David, it was refreshing to have two friends willing to be so open and raw, much like he had experienced with college roommates before. One recent night during a couch chat, David commiserated about never having a good icebreaker. Soon after, we exchanged fun facts about each other, which spiraled into dozens, and eventually led us to share deep memories and experiences that we each had carried. Even after four years together, we still are discovering new things about each other.
In addition to the heavy conversations, we have also bonded through many ridiculous mishaps over the years. Like on the very first day, when Salman offered David a ride to campus only to accidentally back into a parked car. Our apartment became the scene of continuous disasters. We started a fire in the shower once, flooded the kitchen, and learned that Korey has a talent for testing the limits of our microwave. Living together gave us the space to let loose and be carefree, offering a much-needed break from the daily pressures of medical school.
Amidst these lighter moments, we were also there for each other through heartbreak, which was almost like a rite of passage for us. Korey was the first to face a breakup in the first year which left him devastated. David and Salman were there for him through countless nights, listening, reassuring, and helping him remember his worth. A couple of years later, David went through his own breakup, and we gave him the same support he had shown us. Then a year later, Salman faced his own breakup, and we dutifully enabled him to take an “eat, pray, love” trip to Europe. Each heartbreak was difficult, but it deepened our friendship and reminded us how lucky we were to have each other in those times.
As graduation approaches, we know that our lives are about to change. The thought of going home to an apartment without each other feels bittersweet and strange. It is hard to imagine a version of home without these familiar faces. Yet, the time we have shared, the spontaneous conversations, and the countless small acts of friendship on that cramped couch will always be part of us. Queer friendship is something special, and we know that our bond will remain a constant wherever life takes us.
