Once you peeled off the layers — and it took approximately three minutes per layer — each one of us was exactly who we were ~12 years ago.

The same goofy eyebrow raises. The same worse-than-inappropriate jokes. The same desire to do nothing but hang. And the same comfort of being accepted exactly as we are.

We first met in 2003, graduated in 2005, and reunited in 2018. Such a random scatter of lives: a third kid on the way, a thriving café, an engineer in the cannabis industry, bouncing from Dallas to Manhattan. Yet somehow, something magical pulled us back to the ISE clubroom — back to that lazy couch.

Our reunion transported us straight to the hallways of the Engineering building, where the bold, playful version of me roamed free, introducing herself to random strangers: “Hi, my name is Ruhi!” Boom — best buddies! With no words needed, just our smiles took us back to a time when the only excuses we ever made were for staying out longer, laughing louder, and refusing to grow up.

We reminisced about the night we drew a Hitler ‘stache on our drunken friend’s face. About laughing for twenty minutes straight when our buddy mistook wasabi for chutney and downed it in one heroic, fiery gulp. And oh, the post-exam socials, sponsored by Professor Komrosky. We even replayed the night we broke the car entry gate and ran for our lives, only to show up to Economic class the next morning, pretending nothing unusual had happened.

Yes, we all have responsibilities now — the pressure, the act together, the adult packaging. But underneath all the layers, we’re still the same little kids craving freedom, connection, and acceptance. If I could go back in time and change a thing, I wouldn’t. I’d still be the annoying frontbencher, the smart-ass who knew all the answers. And I’m certain none of these backbenchers would change a thing either.

There are two ways to look at layers — the traditional way, where you peel them one by one to uncover who someone really is. And then the other — where life itself adds the layers: adulthood, responsibility, success, heartbreak, society, the whole circle of becoming “someone.”

When you make new friends, they need to peel back those layers one at a time to get to know the real you. But when you meet your old friends, those same layers just slide off. Or do they?
Maybe that’s the real magic of reunions — they don’t just bring old friends back together, they bring back the old versions of us too. It’s like sitting in a time capsule — suddenly, you’re not in 2018 anymore, you’re back in 2003, wearing the skin of your younger self. The goofy one. The reckless one. The one who still thought life would unfold exactly as planned.
And that’s where it gets interesting. Do the same things still spark joy? Or has the gap between then and now stretched so wide that you barely recognize that kid? What was important to you then and what has changed? Did you promise yourself you’d finally be happy when you got that decent job? And when you did — were you? Or were you perpetually looking for the next source of happiness?
Did you know, even back then, that no matter how many promotions you earned, how many new versions of the iPhone you bought, or how many extra zeroes you chased in your bank account, you’d still be hunting for the next big thing — desiring what you don’t have yet and taking for granted everything you’ve already accomplished?

What you thought would bring you joy then… did it? Or are you still seeking? Still hungry for more? Still insatiable?

At the time, you just wanted to pass the exams. Now, you drive a nice car, live in a beautifully decorated home, have a fancy job that makes you walk with pride, maybe a healthy stock portfolio, enjoy the best makeup from Sephora, probably have plans to host people for the holidays. You are, by all measures, the hero version of your younger self. But — are you?

Maybe it’s a good time to pause. To reflect. To do a little reverse gap analysis.

Reunions have a funny way of humbling and flattering you at the same time. They hand you a mirror — not the magnifying kind that shows your pores, but the soulful kind that shows your before. These friends were your biggest fans long before you had achievements, titles, or polish. They loved you when you were raw, broke, dramatic, and a little bit ridiculous. They remember your clumsy confidence and your half-baked dreams. The qualities they adored back then — do you still carry them now? Or did they quietly slip out the back door while you were busy perfecting your grown-up act?

Reunions have a way of peeling those layers back. They remind you that beneath the sophistication and the spreadsheets, the polished conversations and the curated life, there’s still that wild, grinning, slightly unrefined, beautifully unfiltered version of you — the one who laughed too loud and dreamed too big.

If you could borrow one thing from your younger self — a spark, a virtue, a ridiculous habit — which one would it be? And think a little deeper: what if the version of you you’ve been trying to outgrow is still the one holding the brightest spark?

From 2017, on his 3rd birthday:

The night before, he would start asking when I’d arrive. He kept asking every hour until I did. When I finally showed up, he wanted to sneak a peek. Shy, hiding behind walls and doors, giving me only quick glances. Almost always, I had to trick him into talking to me, pulling him closer bit by bit. It was slow and patient, but he loved it. He wanted me to catch him, to come find him, and he said yes to everything I gave him.

“I love you, Bui!”

When my 3-year-old nephew said these words, the world stopped. For a few moments, every trouble froze. For those five seconds, I was the center of his galaxy. I felt caught in his magical web, surrounded on all sides by unconditional love — love that doesn’t judge, doesn’t measure, doesn’t hold back.

The older I get, the more I wish I could go back and be three again. To love without limits, without conditions, without expectations. To push back on a world that always asks us to calculate and measure. To stay true to simply feeling a feeling.

From 2025, on his 12th birthday:

Last night, I opened one of my oldest books, Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse. My name stared back at me in old, dusty handwriting. And suddenly, on this day, I felt the desire to give him the greatest gift of all: a rusty old book. On its first page, with the smell of wood and ink pressed into it, I would write with my own hand:

Dearest of all, my little Kunnu — September 24, 2025

Sixty years from now, when he is surrounded by gadgets that answer every need yet cannot soften solitude, I hope he sits down and opens this book. I hope he travels back to when he was just twelve years old.

And in that faraway world, galaxies from here, where perhaps the 29th version of Optimus serves him tea (or a single capsule of nutrition)… where the iPhone 78 is nothing more than 23 cameras welded together… where Bitcoin has finally proven to be a major disaster and dissolved many stock portfolios… where his face looks ageless but sharper, his biomarkers perfect, all human-AI puzzles resolved — he may wander into an old wooden library built to hold his memories. He may open the book, one that still carries the same dusty smell of a worn page, and read my name.

He may remember my face. He may feel my love. But most of all, I hope he remembers my mischief — me running after him with a phone in my hand, trying to capture a video he was shy about just yesterday.

And when he does, I hope he feels my love the same way I felt his back in 2017 — without limits, without conditions, without expectations. My truest wish is that he stays loyal to what I once called it: feeling a feeling.

Deep cleaning is downright dangerous. One minute you’re tossing out old receipts, and the next you’re staring at photos from a life that feels both impossibly close and impossibly far. Old laptops, mysterious USB sticks, photos from questionable angles — all little time capsules of who you once were. Half embarrassing, half endearing, all proof that you’ve lived.

One such harmless photo pulled me all the way back to 2005. My bank balance had traveled to a place no one should ever go: below zero. The dark side, where overdraft fees sit impatiently waiting, rubbing their greasy little hands together. Funny how when you don’t have money, the banks are the first to charge you more.

But life has a wicked sense of balance. I was broke, yes, but I had just landed my very first engineering job at Solectron. Finally, an aha moment for me — and for my entire family, who had carried quiet doubts about what would become of me. A job at last. A promise that I’d earned it. Proof that I’d be fine. That I was, in fact, going to become the master of my own destiny. And thanks to my dear friend Irete, I wasn’t sleeping on the street. She gave me her couch, unlimited mushroom garlic pasta, and all six seasons of Sex and the City — on cassette, mind you. Pre-Netflix, but “Roo on a couch binge-watching” was already a movement.

Now, let’s clear one thing: I wasn’t a Carrie. I was firmly Team Samantha. Carrie had her shoes and endless relationship drama; Samantha had her power moves and unapologetic charm. But Irete? She worked at Apple in Cupertino, back when owning a MacBook was practically a secret club reserved for employees. She had a style entirely her own — the only woman I’ve ever known who would iron her bedsheets after spreading them on her queen bed. The kind of woman who gifted me an Estée Lauder Pleasures perfume set and taught me the art of spending on myself — spoiling myself. A woman of style, a big heart, and an infectious smile. We’d already built our bond in college — two Nigerian women navigating the world in our own ways — and that connection only deepened as life pushed us into new chapters.

One night we decided to host our first “grown-up” party. Half the room had just graduated, walking with the shiny new confidence of people who believed they’d “made it.” The other half were in their final semester, sipping wine with that smug look of “almost there, almost cool.”

The night blurred quickly — the wine flowed, laughter filled the living room, and the humor was peak early 20s: relentless teasing, inside jokes, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach ache. Then came the moment, tattooed in my memory.

A thump. Loud enough to snap me out of my haze. I squinted, trying to focus, following the sound of unstoppable laughter. And there she was: Irete, toppled off the couch, still clutching her drink like a champion, laughing so hard she couldn’t get up. The party paused, but the laughter didn’t.

That’s all I remember from that night — not the details, not the conversations — just the sound of laughter that wouldn’t end. And maybe that’s the point: overdrafts fade, IKEA furniture breaks, but the laughter sticks.

But let me clarify! The abbreviated term ROFL came later. Irete rolled first.

The best kind of wealth is friends who make you laugh until one of you fall off the couch