September 7th

The first time I noticed the date was on a bus ad that should’ve been selling teeth whitening or mattresses. White font on black, nothing else: SEPTEMBER 7. No URL, no logo. Just a date, like a deadline that belonged to the entire world.

I assumed viral marketing. That night on Reddit, I saw a thread on r/AskReddit: What’s your plan for September 7? The comments were nonsense—jokes about stocking beans, moving money, confessing love. A few swore it was the day, which was either the day nothing happened or the day everything did. The thread blew up, locked within an hour for “low-effort spam.”

It didn’t matter. Copycats sprouted everywhere: r/TrueOffMyChest, r/Conspiracy, even r/BirdsWithArms. The date slid under every conversation like a watermark.

That was in June. Supposedly it began on some tiny subreddit—r/FalseFlagMarmalade, or something equally stupid—before crossposts multiplied. There was a Discord screenshot of someone whose professor said to “make sure you’re home” that day. A tweet with two million likes read simply, See you on 7/9—which, annoyingly, is 9/7 in the U.S. and 7/9 everywhere else, so everyone felt included.

I tried to tune it out. Muted keywords. But it was like trying not to hear the hum of your refrigerator. Once you noticed, it was everywhere. People at work used it like punctuation: We’ll launch the beta after the seventh. Let’s postpone onboarding until the seventh passes. No one said what was supposed to pass.

By July, headlines joined in. Cable news tickers read “SEPTEMBER 7 NEARS” while anchors discussed other things. A radio host ended every hour with, Hold fast—see you on the seventh. The morning show ran What’s Your Perfect September 7 Outfit? A model in mustard and white sneakers laughed like she’d just said something obvious. When the host asked what the event was, she flinched, then smiled. You know.

That’s when I started asking.

“What happens on September 7?”

Pete from work stared like he was trying to place my face.

“You’re kidding,” he said.

“I’m not.”

He blinked, smiled. “Right. Kidding.”

“What happens?”

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“Maybe circle back after the seventh,” he said, and walked away.

It was the same everywhere: the café barista, the grocery cashier, my upstairs neighbor. The question was a conversational pothole—people swerved without thinking. Even my sister. She called to remind me to water her plants when she went away “until after the seventh.”

“Why the magic cutoff?” I asked.

“Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m asking a question.”

“You’ll see.”

By mid-August, it wasn’t just here. CNN showed Paris, Tokyo, Cape Town—each with its own SEPTEMBER 7 billboards, shirts, murals. The BBC host signed off an interview with a tech CEO by saying, See you after the seventh, and the CEO winked—not at her, but at the camera.

Restaurants posted Closed September 7 — See you the next day! Pharmacies sold “Pre-Seventh Essentials.” Even the post office had a sign: No outgoing mail September 7.

I asked the clerk why. She smiled politely. “You know.”

I didn’t.

I started noticing preparations without knowing for what—folding chairs hauled into garages, walls of flashlight batteries, a man stringing lights between buildings, whistling the same eight notes. Some of my neighbors had their curtains drawn all day, but through gaps I could see piles of identical backpacks lined up like they were ready for a field trip. And through it all, everyone was calm, certain.

I told myself it was harmless. A flash mob. A coordinated charity run. But sometimes, walking home late, I’d catch snatches of low conversation, just out of earshot, and when I stepped closer, the speakers would turn away in unison. At night, I’d picture the date printed on the backs of my eyelids.

The first time I played along, I was in line at the bakery. The woman ahead of me said, “See you there.”

I didn’t ask where there was. I just smiled back. It felt… weirdly good, like being let into a joke I didn’t get but wanted to.

After that, it was easier. Big plans for the seventh? Of course. Nobody blinked.

The countdown got louder. Tote bags. Posters. No trailers—just the date. In a park one afternoon, I found a crowd around a clipboard man reading names. People nodded and left. No one explained. I didn’t ask.

Then my sister called.

“You’re coming with me on the seventh.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

“That’s my least favorite answer.”

“Wear comfortable shoes.”

“I own one pair.”

“Good. And bring water.”

I hesitated. “I thought you weren’t getting back until after the seventh.”

A pause. “Plans changed,” she said, and hung up.

The day before, the city felt like it was holding its breath. Traffic light. Shops closed early. The pigeons were gone. I didn’t notice at first—only when I realized the plaza statue that usually had a few perched on it was bare, its bronze shoulders wet from where they’d been.

At eight-oh-three, my sister arrived with a tote bag.

“Got your shirt?”

“Got my skepticism.”

“Good enough.” She handed me water and a granola bar. “Eat now. You don’t want to be hungry later.”

We joined the slow river of people, all in SEPTEMBER 7 shirts, toward the plaza. I’d walked through it a hundred times, but tonight it felt different—bigger, quieter. Packed wall to wall, everyone facing the same way.

No stage. No banners. Just stillness. Somewhere far back, a baby let out a short, sharp cry, and was immediately hushed. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

I checked my phone: 11:59.

And then, without ceremony, it was the seventh. No cheer. Just a collective exhale, as if whatever we’d been bracing for had happened, and didn’t need announcing. The air smelled faintly metallic, like a storm without rain.

Someone beside me turned. I didn’t notice her at first—just the warmth of her presence—until she spoke.

“Come on, Anna.”

It was the first time anyone had used my name in weeks.

I opened my mouth to ask where we were going. Instead, I stepped forward.

And just like that, I was one of them.