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Readers don’t care about relationships between characters just because you tell them the characters are close. They care because of what they see on the page and feel for themselves: the recognition and deep understanding, intimacy and familiarity, mutual support, and the moments when someone shows up—or doesn’t. Learn how to make fictional relationships feel real, and how to build emotional connections between characters that make readers emotionally invest in your story.

If you’ve ever had a relationship with someone who felt like they truly saw you, truly knew you, who “got” you on a level most people don’t, romantic or platonic, you know the power of strong emotional connections.

If you’ve ever read a story that conveyed that level of intensity and honesty and vulnerability between characters, one that had you desperately invested in the relationship, understanding its meaning and impact on the characters, feeling as profoundly involved with and invested in it as if you were part of it yourself, you know the power of authors who can believably create those potent connections on the page: not just romantic relationships but friendships, family, or even bonds with other species.

But judging by how often I see authors struggle in showing believable, relatable, deeply developed relationships—in all genres, not just romance novels—and making readers care viscerally about them, it’s a tough thing to know how to put on the page.

What I often see instead is:

• connection that feels told instead of shown and felt: “he was her everything”; “she understood him in a way no one else could”; “they’d been best friends since childhood, and told each other everything,” etc. This gives readers the gist of the relationship, but it doesn’t have any emotional resonance or meaning because it’s just removed description; we aren’t seeing the dynamic for ourselves, directly.
• feels superficial or unsupported: we see that the characters have a connection, but not why, what it consists of or is based on, how it manifests, what impact it has on them and their lives and choices, etc.
• the meat isn’t on the page: we hear about how the best friend talked the protagonist down from a crisis, for instance, but it’s not dramatized on the page; we learn a couple had a terrible fight or that the protag is devastated by it, but it happens “offstage” and is summed up after the fact; we hear how hard it is for the protag to watch a loved one suffer with disease or illness, but we aren’t seeing it firsthand and experiencing it along with them in “real time” scenes.

How do you show powerful character connections on the page in a way that lets readers see, feel, and understand them? How do you show what draws two characters together or what their connection is based on or why they are so close or what it means to them? How do you let readers see their dynamics and how it affects the main character’s journey?

I often tout the value of analyzing other people’s stories as the most effective way to learn craft, so let’s dissect a classic love story that shows many of the elements of effectively bringing strong relationships to life on the page in a way that lets readers relate to and care about them: the 2014 bromance comedy I Love You, Man.

Sure, it has fart jokes, a masturbation station, and plenty of childish scatological humor. But as I recently rewatched it not once but twice in the last few weeks (having seen it easily three dozen times before that), it dawned on me that it’s also a touching, near-perfect love story of soul mates discovering each other.

Chemistry and Connection

Here’s the premise, if you haven’t seen the movie (but I urge you to watch the movie—it’s delightful): “girl’s guy” Peter Klaven gets engaged to a woman with six bridesmaids and realizes he has no male friends. His search for wedding attendants/a best man leads him on an ever-worsening series of mismatched “man dates”—until a chance encounter with Sydney Fife turns them into fast friends who share everything.

The first challenge of creating strong connections is showing that immediate powerful draw. Director/screenwriter John Hamburg accomplishes this by having Sydney be the only person to notice, eat, and appreciate the class of the rosemary paninis Peter has put out at his carefully orchestrated real estate showing of Lou Ferrigno’s house.

They chat, and in contrast to the many other man dates we’ve seen Peter go on, these two have instant, clear chemistry, bonding over the paninis, Syd’s uncannily accurate characterizations about other potential buyers at the showing, and his disconcerting honesty about why he’s really there. They exchange cards.

Later we see Peter wrestling with calling Syd and rehearsing what to say to him—showing he wants to impress him—and the painfully awkward message he leaves, deeply flustered. It’s clear Peter really likes this guy, as his fiancée later observes at seeing his giddy reaction when Syd calls him back and invites him to hang out that night, which Peter instantly accepts.

That’s three separate ways the screenwriter shows and reinforces the attraction between Syd and Peter:

• in their direct interactions showing how and why they’re drawn to each other;
• in Peter’s actions and reactions regarding Syd;
• and through outside observations.

Over drinks we see more ways Peter and Syd are perfect for each othe: Syd asks pointed personal questions about Peter’s relationship with his fiancé and Peter, while initially uncomfortable, is nonetheless drawn into the intimacy Syd creates, confiding his honest feelings while clearly stunned to be doing so.

From there the conversation flows in a steady, wide-ranging discussion of topics from the serious to the silly as they wind up downing a succession of shots and staying for dinner. Screenwriter Hamburg shows their easy comfort together, shared humor, shared interests, fond nicknames, and a clear reluctance from both to end the evening as Peter winds up calling a taxi home—all great ways to put their developing chemistry on the page.

Deepening the Bond

On its own, though, that initial connection isn’t enough to sustain the entire story; it’s essential that we see the relationship continue to deepen and build, and how it’s intrinsic to the other character’s story and arc.

This is when—when showing a new connection developing in your story—we need to see the characters discovering each other, the bond strengthening as they continue to grow closer.

Peter calls Syd to “ask him out” again and is agonizingly flustered over it, tripping over his own tongue throughout the call. But it doesn’t faze Syd, who suggests Peter meet up with him right then on the Venice Beach boardwalk. Straitlaced, conscientious Peter leaves work immediately to join him, and in their seamless walking conversation we continue to see them share more of themselves, learn more about each other.

Peter and Sydney seem to be opposites in some ways: Sydney all impulsive, loose id with “an ocean of testosterone flowing through my veins” who can’t be pinned down by a woman or social strictures or a job; Peter tightly held superego, careful and responsible, a thoughtful, sensitive boyfriend.

But we see how well they complement each other, how they see and “get” each other’s truest self and bring out the other’s best, help the other learn and grow. Sydney encourages Peter to let himself loose more, and to believe in himself when Peter’s confidence flags; Peter gives Sydney the companionship and belonging and connection he’s craving as all his friends become increasingly unavailable because of their jobs, families, kids.

We see them including each other in their lives, and the effect that has on each of them: Syd comes to Peter’s fencing league and cheers him on, attends his engagement party, goes on a golfing double date with Peter and his girlfriend even though “I don’t play sports with women.” Syd invites Peter into fully equipped jam sessions in his fully equipped “man cave” and includes him on a hiking outing with his buddies.

Showing intimacy and connection heightens readers’ investment and raises stakes on the relationship and its impact on the characters and their arcs.

They have fun and clearly relish each other’s company. Try not smiling during their scenes together as they jam like wannabe rock stars, or ride tandem on Syd’s scooter through the streets of LA belting Rush songs, or compare the halves of their frozen pineapple desserts to see if they fit together.

And, as with all good relationships of any stripe, there’s strong, tangible chemistry—in their conversations, where they both connect and challenge each other; in the warm, fond way Syd looks at Peter in his awkward flounderings at being a guy’s guy; in their full, unadulterated focus on and delight in each other’s company.

Hamburg shows—on the page and on the screen—increasing levels of intimacy and connection that heighten readers’ investment and raise stakes ever higher on the relationship until finally Peter takes the plunge in the apex of commitment and faith: asking Syd to be his best man, where a visibly moved Syd loses his tough-guy façade and grabs Peter into a bear hug in the middle of a busy LA shopping center.

Crisis and Conciliation

But of course, a relationship that’s all smooth sailing makes for boring storytelling. Story thrives on conflict and tension—in every moment, on every page.

Even amid Peter and Syd’s courtship and falling in bro-love, we see the rumblings of coming problems. Peter’s unrestrained impulse-control issues result in a painfully awkward moment with Zoe and her family at the engagement party, where as part of his toast to the couple he not-so-subtly encourages her to try oral sex with Peter, who confided in Syd that he wishes she would. Syd is unable to feign any enjoyment of the “nightmare” golfing date with her best friend, and Peter and Zoe go home in stony silence over it. Tensions continue to rise between Peter and Zoe over Sydney.

When the rift between Sydney and Peter happens, it’s cohesive with their characters and relationship: In a misguided, unrestrained, but goodhearted attempt to help Peter with a major issue at his real-estate office, Syd puts him on racy, over-the-top billboards all over LA; a mortified Peter ends the relationship because it’s making things increasingly fraught with Zoe and he’s determined to make it right.

Story thrives on conflict and tension—in every moment, on every page.

The climax brings their brewing conflicts to a cataclysmic head: Peter calls Syd on being stuck in immature alpha-male posturing while all his friends grow up and lead adult lives and “breaks up” with Sydney (even taking back the DVDs he loaned him).

The breach is meaningful because we’ve been made to care about Sydney and Peter and their connection. We’ve lived their developing relationship along with them directly, seen how they make each other better, support each other, how important each is to the other, so stakes are high. We see how each is diminished when they’re apart, and how much they pine for each other.

The relationship is intrinsic to the story because each character is key to the other’s arc (such as it is in a light brom-com): Peter’s accusations push Syd to finally start to grow beyond his man-child rut and puts him in touch with his softer, more authentic feelings. Sydney has helped Peter unfurl, bolstered his confidence in himself, and taught Peter to open up to having more male friends, resulting in “the most random collection of groomsmen in the history of weddings,” as Zoe observes on their wedding day.

And at the end the “big gesture” that brings them back together is instigated by Peter’s fiancé, Zoe, who clearly sees how Peter is pining for his best friend before the ceremony (resolving that tension thread and affirming that she loves Peter too and wants what’s best for him).

Syd and Peter have their big moment of reconciliation and renewal literally on the aisle at Zoe and Peter’s altar, fully declaring their love for each other, right before Peter and Zoe do the same. The two men’s connection is restored, now even stronger, deeper, and even more naked and genuine and real.

We’re part of all of it firsthand, living it along with them, so it has meaning, depth and impact. The relationship is shown on the screen, yes, thanks to Paul Rudd’s and Jason Segal’s pitch-perfect performances and chemistry, but it’s also on the page in the screenplay (see for yourself here).

Authors, I see a lot of stories that struggle with putting on the page fully realized, believable relationships that readers invest in—in every genre. What’s your experience; what are your challenges with showing real character connection on the page, or how to make readers relate to, root for, and invest in the relationships? What about ensuring these connections are directly germane to the protagonist’s arc in some key way? What techniques do you use to ensure your character relationships feel fully fleshed, authentic, and meaningful?

Continue Reading:

Dissecting and analyzing story is the most powerful way to learn craft. Here are some previous posts that dig deep into other stories to pinpoint what makes them work (or not):

• “How to Create Tension without Conflict” (what makes Nobody Wants This work)
• “Character Stakes: The Key to Making Readers Care” (How Scoop fails)
• “Story versus Storyteller (Or Why I’m Mad at Gus Van Sant)” (where Feud falls short)
• “Analyzing What Makes Story Work (Or Not)” (Nick Cage’s Dream Scenario)
• “Why We Can’t Look Away from White Lotus” (obvs)
• “How Do You Write Enduring Stories?” (The Godfather)

FoxPrint Editorial helps writers strengthen their manuscripts through developmental editing, education, and practical writing guidance. Explore more articles on revision, storytelling, and the publishing process.

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