Then a message from HR popped up on WeChat.
“Qin Yu, come in on Monday to take care of your resignation paperwork. The company’s performance this quarter hasn’t been great, and you’re on the list of positions being cut.”
Qin Yu stared at the screen for about five seconds. The office air conditioner hummed. At the next desk, Xiao Wang was scrolling through Douyin, listening to a popular traditional-style song. Qin Yu had even written Xiao Wang’s weekly reports for two weeks before, because Xiao Wang had said, “Brother Yu, you’re such a good writer.” It seemed that being a good writer hadn’t helped much after all.
He didn’t reply to HR. He set his phone facedown on the desk and began packing: a mug he’d used for three years, a half-used pack of tissues, and the lighter Lin Yuwei had given him, which was in his drawer. It was a birthday present from last year, a Zippo. He’d looked it up later and found it was a knockoff; the real thing cost over a thousand yuan. At the time, Lin Yuwei had said, “Someone gave it to me, so I’m passing it on to you.” He’d said thanks and thought it was worth at least three hundred. Later, he found the exact same one on Taobao for forty-nine yuan, shipping included.
Everything on his desk fit into a single plastic bag. Qin Yu carried it downstairs and ran into Director Liu from his department in the elevator. Their eyes met for half a second before Director Liu looked away at the elevator advertisement. It read, “An adult’s breakdown begins with being short on money.” Qin Yu thought the ad was almost too precisely targeted.
As he reached the building entrance, his phone vibrated again.
This time it wasn’t the bank. The screen showed “Yuwei,” with a profile picture of her posing at some trendy cafe, holding a latte with latte art. Qin Yu answered.
“Qin Yu, are you free this afternoon? Three o’clock, the Starbucks under the IFC.”
“What’s up?”
Lin Yuwei sounded a little more formal than usual, as if she’d rehearsed what to say:
