Just the Way She Liked It

You Know What? I Quit.

The day Emily Griffin quit her job, it wasn’t with a dramatic exit or a chair thrown through a window. No yelling, no tears. Just four quiet words.

“You know what? I quit.”

She said it to no one in particular. Her manager, Matt, was in a meeting — some quarterly strategy summit with a bunch of guys who used words like “synergy” and “value prop” without vomiting in their mouths. Emily was standing in front of the break room coffee machine, watching it sputter out a stream of burned liquid caffeine, and it just hit her.

This job had become a joke. Not the funny kind. The kind of joke you keep telling yourself to justify staying- It pays well. It’s stable. You’re lucky to have it. Every day was a rerun, and the laugh track had long stopped playing.

She left the coffee half-poured, went back to her desk, shut her laptop, and stood there for a moment. No one noticed. That made it easier.

Walking out of that glass-and-concrete mausoleum of an office building felt like slipping out of handcuffs. It wasn’t freedom yet, not really. But it was the first real move toward it she’d made in years.

Two weeks later, Emily was still unemployed, still waking up at 6:30 a.m. out of habit, and still checking emails she didn’t need to check anymore. There were no messages from Matt. No HR exit interviews. Just silence. Like she’d never existed in that building at all.

She liked it better that way.

Her savings weren’t bottomless, but they could last her three months if she kept things tight. So, she made a rule- no job applications for 30 days. Thirty days to figure out who the hell she was without a title under her name and a corporate email signature that screamed importance but meant nothing.

On day five, she pulled her bike out of the dusty corner of her apartment. It had been a Christmas gift from an ex who claimed riding bikes together would be “our thing.” Turned out his real “thing” was ghosting people.

Still, the bike was solid.

She rode without a destination. Just pedaled. Past coffee shops, past parks, through neighborhoods she’d only ever seen on Zillow listings. At one point, she stopped at a bookstore that smelled like wood and ink and rain. She bought a used copy of The Stranger and a notebook with a fox on the cover.

She went to the park, cracked the notebook, and wrote-

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m terrified.

Also? I feel more alive than I have in years.

By day eleven, she’d started a new routine- wake up, no alarm. Coffee at home, not because she was broke but because she was tired of burnt break room sludge. Then either read, write, ride, or walk. No LinkedIn. No productivity hacks. Just breathing room.

She ran into her old coworker Wayne at the farmer’s market. He was still stuck in the building.

“You really quit?” he asked, like she’d said she was moving to Mars.

“I really quit.”

“Brave.”

“No. Desperate.”

He laughed, but she wasn’t joking.

Still, that night she felt proud. Desperation had forced her to be honest. She’d been living like a plant in a dark room — just enough light to survive, but not enough to grow. That job was the dark room. Leaving was her cracking the blinds.

Day seventeen, Emily got a call from her mom.

“Found any new leads?”

“Nope.”

“What’s the plan then?”

“There isn’t one yet.”

Her mom sighed. Emily didn’t try to fill the silence.

Later, she opened her notebook and wrote-

They all want a plan. But maybe the point is not having one. Maybe the plan is not having a plan, for once.

On day twenty-three, she started volunteering at a food bank. Just three hours a day, stocking shelves and sorting donations. No one asked what she did “for a living.” No one cared. There was work, and there were people who needed help, and that was enough.

There was a man there named Scott, maybe seventy, maybe eighty. Sharp eyes. Hands like driftwood.

“You seem like you used to be important,” he said, tying up a bag of rice.

“I used to be employed. Same thing, apparently.”

Scott smirked. “You’ll learn quick. Most jobs don’t make you important. They just make you busy.”

Day twenty-eight. Emily stood in front of her mirror and tried to picture herself as a boss. Not a manager. A boss. Someone who made things. Wrote things. Led things. Built her own days.

She couldn’t see it. Not clearly. But the outline was there. Blurry, like an early sketch. Enough to keep going.

She took out her notebook and wrote-

I quit a job. But I think I’m starting a life.

Day thirty. She sat down with her laptop and made a new folder- "Next."

She didn’t know what would go in it yet. Maybe a freelance pitch. Maybe short stories. Maybe a business plan. Maybe nothing.

But she was ready now.

That night, she wrote one last thing in the notebook-

The truth is, I didn’t quit because I was brave. I quit because I couldn’t breathe. Now I can. That’s enough.

Day 42.

Emily had made it six weeks without a plan, and somehow, the sky hadn’t fallen.

She woke up to sunlight cutting across the floor and the smell of her neighbor’s overenthusiastic basil plant wafting in through the window. Her fridge was mostly condiments and a half-used tub of hummus, but she felt okay.

Better than okay. Alive.

She made eggs. Burned them a little. Didn’t care.

Her phone buzzed — unknown number. She let it go to voicemail. When she checked the message, it was Matt. The voice was stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to talk to someone who’d jumped ship without a farewell cake.

“Hey Emily. Just… saw your email. Belatedly, I guess. Surprised to hear you left. I, uh, hope you’re doing well. If you’re open to talking about some opportunities, maybe consulting or project-based work, let me know. No pressure.”

She didn’t delete the message. But she didn’t call back either.

Day 45.

Emily started writing again. Not journaling — writing. Real writing. Fiction. Short pieces. Scenes. Conversations between people who didn’t exist but felt more real than some of the execs she used to write reports for.

She posted one of them online. Just a short story on a forum where no one knew her name.

It got twelve likes. One comment-

“This hit hard. Thank you.”

She stared at that comment for a long time. Longer than she’d stared at her last performance bonus.

Day 52.

Her friend Kaeya invited her to a dinner party full of “creative people,” which sounded like code for freelancers with anxiety and excellent outfits.

Turned out it wasn’t far off. But it was the good kind of awkward. There was a woman there named Sylvia who ran a boutique digital magazine and was always looking for contributors.

“You write?” she asked, halfway through a glass of something amber and expensive-looking.

“I’m starting to.”

Sylvia gave her a card. “Send me something. Even if it’s weird.”

Especially if it’s weird, Emily thought.

Day 58.

Scott at the food bank told her he used to be a jazz pianist. Played with big names, back in the day. Toured the world.

“What happened?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Got tired of airports and lonely nights. Wanted something slower. Less applause, more meaning.”

Emily asked if he missed it.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But not the way you’d think. I miss the feeling. Not the lifestyle.”

That sat with her. Heavy, but clarifying.

Day 60.

Two months. No job title. No business card. No calendar packed with meetings that should’ve been emails.

She submitted a story to Sylvia. Raw, a little messy, but hers.

Two days later, Sylvia emailed back-

“It’s strange and sharp and honest. I want it.”

She read that sentence twice, then stood up and shouted “Yes!” loud enough to scare her cat.

It paid $75. Not much. But she framed the email.

Day 65.

Emily got another message from Matt. This time a little more insistent. “There’s a client who’d love your voice. Short contract. Big brand. Think about it.”

She thought about it.

Then thought about who she was becoming.

Then replied-

“Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m not available right now. I’m building something of my own.”

She hit send. No regret.

Day 70.

She rode her bike to the same bookstore where she bought The Stranger. The fox notebook was full now. She bought another — this one had a bear on it.

She started it with a line from her latest draft-

“You can walk away from anything, as long as you’re willing to face the silence that comes next.”

She was facing it. And it wasn’t so silent anymore.

Day 75.

Her friend Wayne called. Still at the company. Still tired.

“I think I want out,” he said.

Emily didn’t tell him what to do. Just told him what she’d done. Told him the truth- it was hard. But worth it.

“You don’t have to leap,” she said. “Just start turning your body toward the door.”

Day 90.

Three months. Emily had two stories published. Was volunteering twice a week.

Had a loose plan to start a newsletter. And a tighter plan to keep saying no to the things that drained her. She wasn’t rich. She wasn’t famous. But she was hers again.

That morning, she made her own coffee — dark, smooth, a little too strong. Just the way she liked it. No break room. No burned sludge. Just quiet.

And that, she thought, was enough for now.