Every year on Feb. 16, Carly Crone’s father would wish her a happy birthday and — in the same breath — remind her it was also the birthday of Harry Cohn, his very best friend since kindergarten.

The two didn’t meet until nine years ago, however, when Ms. Crone’s dad died and she called to tell Mr. Cohn. From the moment he picked up, she felt a connection to him she still struggles to describe.

“I remember where I was standing when I made the phone call,” recalled Ms. Crone, 46. “There was something … it was like this knowing of him, like I felt this trust inside. I can’t quite actually put it into words.”

From there, the pair kept in touch. They texted and chatted on the phone several times a week, in conversations that sometimes lasted an hour or more. “We would talk about everything. I would talk about my kids. I would talk about work. He would tell me stories about my dad,” Ms. Crone said.

Whenever Mr. Cohn traveled from his home in Connecticut to Chicago, where Ms. Crone lives, they went out to dinner — a tradition they keep up today. “When we go to the restaurant, one of the first things I say to the waiter is, ‘What time does this place close?’” Mr. Cohn, 74, joked.

At times, their bond feels almost enchanted. “I’ll be like, ‘Oh, I need to call Harry about something,’ and then he’ll call me right away,” Ms. Crone said. Or Mr. Cohn will think of emailing Ms. Crone and open his inbox to find a message from her waiting for him.

“My dad would be so happy to know that he gave me the gift of his friend,” Ms. Crone said.

“I always tell Carly I’m really not spiritual — though she tells me I am — but there is some connection here,” Mr. Cohn said. “I have no idea, I can’t explain it.”

Their inability to describe their friendship — from the spark they felt during that initial phone call to the kinship they share today — belies a deeper truth, which is that we seldom talk about big, profound platonic love. Romantic partners gush about love at first sight; parents rhapsodize about meeting their babies for the first time. But it’s rare for friends to wax poetic about the moment they “fell” for one other.

“We don’t have nuanced words for that kind of deep, deep, deep caring and connectedness,” said Diane Barth, a psychotherapist and the author of “I Know How You Feel: The Joy and Heartbreak of Friendship in Women’s Lives.”

Andrea Bonior, a psychologist and the author of “The Friendship Fix,” said that when we talk about friendship, “we kind of take the magic away,” even though many platonic connections start with a rush that feels an awful lot like falling in love — a recognition that there is “a specific alchemy to this new relationship that brings out something special in you.”

Not every friendship begins with that kind of lightning bolt moment, but Dr. Bonior and others believe there is a case to be made for honoring it when it does happen, and for just generally doing more to revere and celebrate platonic love. By making a deliberate effort to do so, we are more likely to keep our friendships top of mind and prioritize them, Ms. Barth added.

This Valentine’s Day, the Well team asked friends — like Mr. Cohn and Ms. Crone — to describe the moment they knew they had something special.

“It was a really, really intense moment.”

Thea Breite, 64, and Martha Hausman, 60, met years ago through their children’s school in suburban Boston. When Ms. Breite and her wife were both diagnosed with cancer in early 2017, Ms. Hausman was one of many who pitched in, driving them to various appointments and helping with meals.

Still, the women didn’t become close friends until later that year. Ms. Breite had finished her cancer treatment but had sunk into depression. Her wife was very sick, and she had three children to raise. One day, while driving to a destination she can no longer remember, she pulled over at an unfamiliar playground, got out and started to cry.

Ms. Hausman, who had been visiting another friend and was driving a route she didn’t normally take, spotted her. “I don’t know why I decided to go in another direction that day, but I did and I saw Thea on the playground,” she said. “She was walking, but really stooped. I could see that she was in distress.”

Ms. Hausman pulled over and the women sat together on a bench.

“You wept,” Ms. Hausman recalled.

“I wept,” Ms. Breite agreed.

“It was a really, really intense moment for both of us,” Ms. Hausman said.

From there, they developed a deep attachment. Ms. Breite’s wife died in 2020, and though she has been supported by a large and willing group of friends, she has leaned particularly heavily on Ms. Hausman, who has stepped in to join her friend at parent-teacher conferences and helped her cope with the pain of losing her partner. “I really needed a Martha,” Ms. Breite said.

But the friendship does not feel one-sided, Ms. Hausman added. When her sciatica flared, Ms. Breite drove to her home with lidocaine patches and gave her a back massage. And she loves that she made a new best friend in her late 50s. “It’s just nice to have a clean slate with someone and just be who you are now,” she said.

“I didn’t turn around or cry.”

Shahrzad Radbod and Neda Barkhordar, both 36, forged their bond before they knew how to read or tie their shoes. Ms. Radbod and her family were recent refugees from Iran, trying to acclimate to life in Southern California. “I didn’t know a word of English,” Ms. Radbod said. “My mom enrolled me in kindergarten and sat me next to the only Persian person in class.” That person was Ms. Barkhordar.

Ms. Radbod remembers snippets from those first days. She recalls the sound of her friend’s voice as she translated for her: Now it is time for recess. Now it is time to color. And she remembers a feeling: There was someone next to her, looking out for her.

“My mom says she was kind of shocked that I sat down next to Neda and I didn’t turn around or cry,” she said.

Ms. Barkhordar remembers immediately recognizing how capable Ms. Radbod was, and that she acclimated to her new environment much faster than she gives herself credit for.

Today, the women are lawyers in Los Angeles, and continue to show up for each other in ways big and small. When Ms. Radbod went through a difficult breakup early in the pandemic and was struggling to sleep, Ms. Barkhordar arrived in a surgical mask with a bottle of melatonin. When Ms. Radbod makes big life decisions — like when she bought a house, or negotiated her work salary — Ms. Barkhordar is the first person she calls.

Ms. Barkhordar calls Ms. Radbod her “moral compass.” Though they sometimes “fight like a married couple,” when she connects with Ms. Radbod, she feels, above all else, a sense of “safety.”

And whenever they meet someone new together, “Neda always says: ‘This is Shahrzad. She didn’t know a word of English when I met her. Now look at her!’” Ms. Radbod laughed.

“I was scared but you were guiding me.”

Raphaela Francis, 47, and Renée Kornbluth, 71, have been friends for more than three decades. They met in 1990 at an Outward Bound program in New York City — Ms. Francis was a Black high school student from the South Bronx and Ms. Kornbluth was a white 39-year-old volunteer from suburban New Jersey. Within minutes of being introduced, they were paired up and scaling the masts and rigging of the Peking, a towering merchant ship stationed at the South Street Seaport.

Ms. Francis was wary of investing too much in a relationship with any of the program volunteers, but the trust she felt was instantaneous.

“We were up in the air and I was scared, but you were guiding me and you were calm,” Ms. Francis recalled in a conversation with Ms. Kornbluth. “You were — I don’t know, there was something that you gave me that I needed.” After the weekend was over, Ms. Francis sent Ms. Kornbluth a letter saying she wanted to stay in touch.

Ms. Francis’ mother had substance abuse issues and she was living with her older sister at the time, so Ms. Kornbluth invited her to spend weekends at her home in New Jersey. “I think maybe she needed a mother figure a little bit, and I needed a kid,” Ms. Kornbluth said. “We were a great fit for one another in that regard.”

Ms. Kornbluth didn’t have a car, so she drove Ms. Francis around on her motorcycle. “I took her everywhere on the back of my bike.”

As the years have gone by, they have remained in touch even though they’ve often lived far apart. (Ms. Kornbluth still resides in New Jersey; Ms. Francis is currently in Washington State.) At the start of the pandemic, Ms. Kornbluth was out of work and feeling “very depressed.” Ms. Francis called her landline (Ms. Kornbluth did not have a cell at the time) and said: “There’s a Samsung Galaxy S10 waiting for you at Russell Cellular, I’m putting you on my plan,” Ms. Kornbluth recalled. “I said, ‘I’ll pay you for it!’ And she said, ‘No way.’” 

“You know, my friend wasn’t doing well,” Ms. Francis said. “I wanted to be able to call her and know where she was.”

“I just think it’s easy to fall for somebody who doesn’t judge you, who’s genuine,” she added. “It doesn’t matter what color they are, what age they are. You can tell when somebody is genuinely trying to be good to you.”