Nine moments of a life that suddenly had time in it.
The aftermath. The Slack ping at 9:14 on a Tuesday morning ended the job. The severance package, the open calendar, the slow turn toward something else.
The Monday after, I opened my calendar.
The week was empty. The grid of time was just — there. No 8:30. No 9:00. No 11:15 quick sync. No 4pm-block-for-deep-work I wouldn't have used for deep work. The Monday-feeling that had arrived earlier every Sunday for months looked around for somewhere to land, and found nothing. I drank the espresso. Still hot. I sat with the open calendar for a while. Neither of us knew what to do next.
Didn't go to Saturday boba.
The woman is probably there. It's not raining. I'm in the apartment, looking at the wall, with tea I made myself. I needed to know I could not go. To know the ritual was a choice, not just punctuation for the week before Monday. Today there is no week before Monday. There is only Saturday. The ritual is a thing I can keep or let go. This Saturday, I'm sitting with it. I'll probably go next week.
The resignation email I'd drafted for nine days is still in drafts.
Opened it Wednesday. Read it three times. It is, I admit, a beautiful email. Would have been a great email to send. I would have looked, in retrospect, like someone who chose. I sat with it open for a minute. Closed the tab. I won't be sending it. Someone else made it obsolete by four days. Left it in drafts. A small fondness for the version of me who almost sent it.
The spreadsheet used to be hypothetical.
Columns the same: months of runway, freelance rate, NYC rent, ramen. The numbers are not. The severance is in there now. The final paycheck. Actual savings, not the savings I rounded up to make the math feel okay. The file is no longer if_i_quit.xlsx. No longer probably_not.xlsx. It is the math.xlsx. The math says I have time. The math says I should be careful. The math is, this time, real.
I told Priya at the café.
"I got laid off," I said, without crying. It surprised me. Priya put her hand on my arm. "Oh, honey. Are you okay?" I said, "I don't know." She said, "That's the right answer." Then: "You were going to do it anyway." I said, "Yeah." She said, "Are you going to Hangzhou?" I said, "Yeah." She said, "Good." She paid. I let her. We will get a thousand more coffees.
Mim has started sitting in the suitcase.
I haven't finished packing it. It's open on the bed for purposes of Jan needs to think about packing. Mim sits there with the level concern of a small CEO whose direct report just told her something she has feelings about. She has done this every time I open it. We haven't discussed it. We don't need to. I won't be taking her. She knows.
Told Mom on Sunday.
Waited until the end of the call. Said it in a mix of English and the worst Mandarin she pretends I have. "我被裁员了." I got laid off. Quiet for five seconds. Then: "好." Another five seconds. Then: "Come home." I said yes. I said I'm coming. I said I'm sorry. She said, "No sorry. Come home." We didn't say more than that.
The ticket is booked.
It's in my inbox. My name, her city, a date—eleven days from now. The return is open. I didn't breathe for the last second of the booking. Exhaled afterward. Sat at the kitchen table for a minute. Mim came over, sat on my foot. We both looked at the laptop. I closed it. Didn't text anyone. I'll text Priya in the morning. Tonight, I am the only person in the world who knows this is happening.
The last Saturday before I go.
The bench is the bench. The bagel is the bagel. The pigeons are the pigeons. I'm not leaving them. I'll be back. I just don't know when. The light this morning is the right kind of soft. The coffee is exactly the right temperature. Holding the paper bag with both hands. I've been coming here fourteen months without calling it anything. I think it's something. Saying goodbye for a while. I think it understands.