The Last Version of Me — A Writing Challenge

It all comes at a cost—wisdom, growth and success

The cost we pay to become who we are. (An AI Generated image)

I have hardly seen a child in my life who doesn’t want to quickly grow up. And I have rarely seen an adult in my life who doesn’t look at childhood with longing and nostalgia. Growing up comes at a cost, and so does everything else in life.

It was such a wonder to see him after three years, to have walked into him at this conference, least expecting him to be here. I cross-checked the list of guest speakers with whom I was supposed to share the stage that day. Yes, his name was very much there, but I had overlooked it because never in my wildest dreams could I imagine him being a tech cofounder and a CTO.

The last memory I had of him was that of a crazy, rich, spoilt brat who had nothing to do with academics or technology or jobs. He was a musician and an artist. When he sang and played his guitar, the whole college would cheer him. When he rode his bike with his beloved bike gang at 1 am at night on a freezing road, there was no one who could match his speed.

I was the front-bench, studious merit-holder student; the colourless one. I had a disciplined life where I pretty much lived in a straight line. He was the noisy trouble maker, fun, social, and back-bencher, who never walked straight. It was a stroke of sheer luck how we even became friends. Besides debates and making documentaries, there was no interest we had in common. While I worked hard to top the exams, he made the professors work hard to pass him.

I came from a simple family. My goal was to work hard and make a career. Every achievement for me came with strong intention and disciplined actions. He was the privileged one, coming from a strong business family in Delhi. He just wanted to learn, love, and live freely.

After hearing him on stage, I was amazed how he was still the humourous and engaging guy who could hold the audience. We both together were the best team to present ideas and pitches—we could even complete each other mid-sentence. But something about him was amiss. His long, scattered hair was neatly trimmed and combed. He was a nonconformist to such a degree that he appeared to receive an award in shorts. Seeing him in a business suit itself felt so wrong.

We met for a coffee right after the conference. Sitting in his luxury sedan made me so uncomfortable. He was that crazy guy who would pick me up on a bike right in front of the girls’ hostel, where he was not supposed to be, and race it at crazy speed, sometimes being chased by guards. He made me laugh so much that my stomach hurt. I loved the gush of wind past me, which I had never known had I not met him. That “tapri wali chai” (tea at a roadside tea stall), those dances in the rain, and that race on the railway track—that thrill could never be put in words.

How he taught me to bunk classes and go for movies or pizza. How we went on impromptu trips. How he made me experiment with new things and gain new experiences, break barriers, and live free. From standing for college elections to building an NGO from the ground up, he made me try things that were not even on my radar. He was the wild wind beneath my wings that really made me fly.

After meeting him for good two days, I was nostalgic about that wild part of me that I had left behind. But even more nostalgic about that wild part of him that he had left behind.

Time passes quickly, as it did for us. Four years went by in a breeze. I graduated college as a gold medalist with the best-paying job on campus. He graduated with minimum marks and no job — not that he needed one. It was a matter of time; reality hit us.

My parents vehemently forbade me to continue any relationship with him. Nothing worked in his favour—non-meritorious, notorious, and spoilt, thriving only on his father’s money and belonging to a disproportionately rich and politically exposed family—not the ideal husband my parents would have wanted for me. Not the kind of girl who would have gone against her family if I felt their ideologies had merit. He loved me then and he loved me now. Just the same—not moved on!

There he was, sitting across me; quiet, balanced and matured. Self-made, successful, and elegant. Just the kind of guy my parents would have wanted me to bring home. But what’s the point when he had paid so much price by losing who he uniquely was.

No matter how I saw it, he lost himself because of me. Every part of me now looked back and tried to see the merit of his ways. He was perfect the way he was. I hurt him so deeply, left him, and in this process, changed him into someone he didn't need to become.

That was the last version of me, sitting across from him, which had confused being wild or notorious with not being dependable. That had confused not being successful with not being happy. That had judged not being self-made as not being competent enough. That version, which I never brought back from the cafe.

Thank you Manmeet Singh Bhatia for the challenge and the wonderful prompt.

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🕰️ This story is part of ‘The Last Version of Me — A Writing Challenge’ on The Rabbit Note.

🕰️ Who did you have to stop being… to become who you are? Write about the self you left behind and submit to ‘The Last Version of Me’ on The Rabbit Note. Submissions open until 10 July 2026.

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