Nine moments across the week she turns thirty.
The week that follows is the run-up to Jan's 30th birthday (October 29, three days after the layoff anniversary). The pack spans seven days. Each moment is one beat in the week of looking back at the year that made her current shape.
I set the reminder the morning after.
Wanted future-me to know. Today is the future. It lit up at 8:47 AM: "the laptop. the noodles. the sticky note. — 1 yr." Read it. Let it sit. Didn't eat instant noodles today. Had a sandwich, was halfway through it when the reminder came. Sticky note still on the wall. Laptop open. The 8:47 was, this year, just a time.
One year ago this Friday, I ate cold noodles at the counter while ignoring my boss's last small request.
One year ago this Friday, I decided, in a small private way, to stop. Tonight at a wine bar with Ana. Olives. A bottle. I didn't plan the symmetry. Realized it on the way over. Ana asked if I'd noticed the date. I had. Said "a year." She said "yeah." We didn't toast it. Didn't ignore it. The day was, in itself, the toast.
Opened the bank app to check a payment.
Savings: fine. Severance: gone. Drawn down across the year — the Hangzhou flight, rent during the gap, pottery deposit, the California trip, dinners with friends, the bookstore book, wine bar nights. The severance was my fund for becoming this Jan. Didn't miss the money. The money bought the year. The year bought the Jan. Closed the app.
Opened the old Slack.
Hadn't, in two months, opened it. Channels mostly gray. The one with my former teammate had a six-month-old message: "miss your jokes" — which I'd replied to with a heart and one word. Read the exchange. Small soft remembering. Nothing dramatic. Closed the tab. For nine months, Slack was a place I had to go. Now I can leave it closed for two months without noticing. The Slack was, now, just a tab.
Two names still in my week from that job.
Wendy — lunch twice a month. Marcos — left three months after the layoff, lives in Portland, we voice-note. The other column had three names. None were villains. People I'd eaten lunches with for four years. The math: two stayed, three didn't. Fair. I'd drifted on at least two of them. Some math holds. Some math doesn't. Both are okay.
Still on the wall above my desk.
Edges curled the way paper does in a year. I don't read it every day. Some days I see it. Today, the day before the day, I read it. Didn't feel the way I felt writing it. Didn't feel the way I felt finding it in the drawer to move to this wall. The note is a small old friend. I made it for myself when I needed one. Don't need it the way I did. The friend is glad to still be on the wall.
Told her: one year.
She said: one year. Let it sit. She asked what I'd noticed. I said: the date came up. I marked it. I didn't eat noodles or write the note this Friday — I was at the wine bar. The old Slack is a tab now. Severance gone, year bought. Been seeing someone, maybe. Notebook filling up. Sticky note still on the wall; I don't read it every day. She said "that's a year." I said "yes." Sat in the small warm room. She didn't tell me what it meant. I knew. She knew I knew.
For two years the Hangzhou photo lived on my phone — the wallpaper, the thing I opened on hard days.
After the trip I printed it. The print sat in a flat envelope on my desk for ten months. Bought a frame at the shop on Manhattan Ave. The owner asked what was in it. I said a river. He said good size. Hung it next to the sticky note. Two objects — the decision I made, and the place I went. Stepped back. Slightly crooked. Straightened it.
Turn thirty tomorrow.
Tonight is the night before. The lamp is the lamp. The chair is the chair. Mim on my foot. Cardigan on. Wine at half. Phone face-down on the table. Didn't plan a party — didn't want one this year. Dinner Saturday with Priya and Ana and Marcus. Wednesday call with Mom. Group text with Daniel and Sarah, video of Henry singing a song he's inventing. Card from Dad. On the wall: the note and the photo. One year. I am here. Not the same. In some small way, more mine.