Would your friend fight Vecna for you? What Stranger Things reminds us about friendship

In contrast, today’s generation is increasingly building friendships online. Spread across platforms — WhatsApp, Instagram, Snapchat, and Discord — these relationships may have emotional proximity but don’t require physical effort. Everything now happens simultaneously and partially. Conversations coexist with scrolling. Support is offered through emojis and reactions. We are connected, but that connection often feels lightweight, low-risk, and easily abandoned.

When you can be bored together

Stranger Things, where friendships are for life or death, exposes the loss of density in our own real-life relationships. The show’s version of friendship feels intense not only because it is dramatic, but because it is undivided. When the kids are together, they are fully there. That kind of presence feels almost radical now.

One of the most striking aspects of the show is how much time the characters spend doing absolutely nothing. They loiter. They repeat the same games. They walk around town with no destination. There is no urgency to optimise their time or turn every interaction into something productive. For Gen Z, raised on hustle culture and calendar apps, this kind of unstructured togetherness feels indulgent, even irresponsible. We schedule catch-ups weeks in advance. We squeeze friendships between deadlines. Hanging out has to be “worth it.”

But Stranger Things quietly argues that depth is built precisely in these inefficient moments. Shared boredom becomes intimacy. Inside jokes are born from repetition. Emotional safety comes from familiarity, not novelty. Today, when every social interaction competes with ten others, boredom feels like failure. Yet the show suggests that boredom is where relationships thicken, where people become more than curated versions of themselves.

Here comes the ghost

The digital age has also changed how we handle, or even avoid, conflict. In Hawkins, disagreements are messy and unavoidable. You argue, storm off, and inevitably run into each other again. There is no option to disappear quietly. In the real world, however, emotional escape routes are built into our friendships. We ghost. We delay replies. We use “busy” as a socially acceptable exit. Distance can be created without explanation, and detachment can be framed as self-care.

When you can disappear without consequence, presence loses its weight. Stranger Things suggests that accountability is an underrated form of intimacy. Being seen consistently, especially when it’s uncomfortable, creates trust. You know who will show up, because they always have. That reliability is hard to replicate in a culture where availability is constant, but commitment is optional.

Undeniably, however, this ability to end relationships can often make friendships — those that turn toxic or overbearing — feel safer. The show’s version of togetherness cannot be taken literally. The idea of being together all day, every day is not only unrealistic, but exclusionary. Real-world friendships are fragmented by cities, careers, long-distance lives, and overstimulation.

Then there’s another reality: physical-only worlds aren’t universally safe or welcoming. Digital spaces have enabled many to “chose” their families, to find their communities, and access people we might never have met otherwise. Queer community spaces, mental health awareness, and like-minded forums can be life-changing.

Put your phone down?

So, the problem isn’t distance, but dilution. Stranger Things works because the characters are children, living in a stage of life where proximity is automatic. Growing up means losing that default closeness. The challenge is not to recreate it, but to replace it with intention.

Digital culture has trained us to curate not just our identities, but our availability. We decide when to respond, how much to reveal, and when to disengage. While this control can be empowering, it also creates a culture where intimacy is optional and effort is negotiable.

What the show signals is subtler than abandoning our phones or romanticising the past. It asks whether we are willing to be fully present when it matters. That might look like phone-down conversations, showing up physically for grief, not just texting support, and choosing fewer friendships but investing in them more deeply. You don’t have to be always available, but at least consistently there.

For Gen Z, presence might be the new rebellion. In a culture that rewards speed, detachment, and constant stimulation, choosing depth is countercultural.

Of course, we must acknowledge that Gen Z’s craving for “low-maintenance friendships” reflects real exhaustion. But Stranger Things reminds us that meaningful relationships are, by nature, high-maintenance. They demand time, emotional availability, and the willingness to be seen across moods and phases.

What the show ultimately captures is a pre-algorithmic intimacy — one not optimised for performance or documentation. There are no photos taken for proof, no stories posted to validate the moment. For a generation accustomed to living with an invisible audience, this kind of unobserved togetherness feels almost utopian. It asks: what would connection look like if it didn’t need to be witnessed to be real?

Perhaps that is why the show resonates so strongly now. It arrives at a moment when Gen Z is reckoning with burnout, loneliness, and the quiet fatigue of being perpetually “on.” The appeal isn’t some nostalgic fever dream of biking together and playing games in basements. It’s about the certainty of knowing who your people are, and that they will show up when the metaphorical Vecna appears in your life.

Aashika is an intern with indianexpress.com