In 2011, I left my small hometown in South India to pursue a master’s degree at a top university in the North. It was a dream I had nurtured for years. I studied with all I had—sleepless nights, long days of prep—and finally secured a top rank in the entrance exam. But when it came time to actually leave, I was scared.

I came from a modest background. My parents were hesitant to send me so far, and I barely spoke the local language. Everything felt foreign—food, people, the city, the culture. I was out of place, out of sync, and terribly homesick.

On the first day of class, I met a few students from my home state, and I clung to that familiarity like a life raft. One of them, let’s call him R, stood out. He was charismatic, confident, fluent in English and Hindi, everything I wasn’t. I admired him—genuinely. I wanted to learn from him, speak like him, carry myself like him. I thought he could be a friend, maybe even a mentor.

At first, we bonded. We went to dinners, shared meals, split bills without thinking twice. We were all on modest scholarships, but R would blow through his money in a couple of days. The rest of the month, he’d depend on us—for food, cigarettes, random expenses. I didn’t mind at first. I thought, “He’s just struggling like all of us.”

But then came the emotional leeching.

He would constantly put us down. The way we talked, the way we dressed, the way we were. And I believed him. I thought I was the problem. I didn’t have friends from cities before—I didn’t know what was normal. I began to internalize his criticism. Maybe I really was backward. Maybe I didn’t belong.

He was smooth with women too. He’d casually mention his flings, his nights out. I was envious, not because of the sex, but because he moved through life so easily while I was stuck trying to find my footing. I wanted to learn from him—but no matter how hard I tried, I could never be like him.

Then, one day, he just dropped out. Said the professors weren’t good enough for him. But he didn’t leave. He lingered. Crashed in hostels. Hung out on campus. And still found ways to insert himself into our lives.

I moved to a new city for my PhD, thinking I was finally free. But he came back again—visiting with mutual friends, staying over. And once again, the same pattern: borrowing money, disappearing with girls, using my room as a party spot. I was scared. If the hostel security caught us, I could’ve been kicked out. But he didn’t care.

He made me feel guilty for setting boundaries.

When I asked for the money back, he spun stories of hardship. When I asked him to stop bringing people over, he said I didn’t know how to treat friends. Every day, I felt more suffocated, more disrespected.

Until one night—I snapped.

He was drunk and loud, we had just finished dinner, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I asked him to leave. At midnight. We fought. I told him he was entitled, manipulative, and had no respect for others. That night, I shut the door on him—and on our friendship—for good.

It’s been over a decade now. I haven’t spoken to him since.

I hear things through common friends—he got a government job, got married, became a union leader. Apparently, he fights with everyone—his colleagues, his wife, even his superiors.

A while ago, he got my number from someone and prank-called me. Teased me about my old college crushes, trying to get a reaction. I knew it was him. I blocked him everywhere.

And still... I feel guilty.

I know he’s struggling. I know he never really had emotional support. And I know he wasn’t only toxic—he helped me grow in weird, painful ways. I learned how not to be. I learned boundaries, self-respect, and the difference between charisma and compassion.

But I also learned how long emotional scars can linger.

So here I am—years later—wondering:

Am I the asshole for cutting him off and keeping him out of my life, even knowing how much he’s hurting now?