The Year I Started Giving Money Away on New Year's Eve

The Year I Started Giving Money Away on New Year's Eve

The meter said twenty-eight. I scanned fifty. He looked up. I said Happy New Year. He froze for two seconds. Then he said thank you, boss. I closed the door. Wind went down my collar. I pulled up my zipper. I walked into the complex. My phone buzzed in my pocket. He sent a smiley face.

I used to use coupons. I used to check which route had less traffic. I used to choose the shared ride to save three yuan. Now I still look at the price. But when my finger hovers over the pay button, it stays there for one extra second. In that second, I see the meter. I see his hands on the wheel. He is still driving tonight.

The barbershop is downstairs. It was still open in the afternoon. The barber asked short or trim. I said trim. He cut for forty minutes. The blow dryer hummed. In the mirror, I saw cracks on his fingers. When I paid, he said fifty. I scanned sixty-six. He said too much. I said Happy New Year. He pushed a candy into my hand. I took one. Orange flavor.

At night, WeChat started ringing. Group greetings came one after another. Someone sent me a separate message: Happy New Year. I sent back a red envelope, one hundred sixty-six yuan and sixty-six cents. They sent a question mark. I replied: Happy New Year. They replied: Thank you, boss. I put the phone face down on the table. The Spring Festival Gala was on TV. The skit was not funny. I peeled the candy. Orange flavor. Very sweet.

I had made about a million a year for a few years. This year, something loosened. The balance grew, but the change showed up in small moments. I stopped being nervous about small things. I stopped asking prices at the vegetable market. I stopped staring at the estimated fare. When the barber said fifty, I gave sixty-six, and my hand did not pause. Sometimes I send red envelopes to strangers and only after I send them do I catch myself. I sat on the sofa. I opened my banking app. I checked the balance. I did the math. If it dropped thirty percent, how long could I keep sending? I changed the red envelope budget to five hundred a month. When it's gone, it's gone. The joy lasts longer when it has a limit. I have seen good markets. I have seen bad markets. A-shares are hard. I have made money there. I have lost money there. When I lost, I couldn't sleep. Now I keep living expenses, insurance, tax money. Only what's left moves.

I work in AI. The industry is crowded. What I learn today may be old tomorrow. I find creators on Bilibili and follow them. My favorites folder has dozens of videos. Some I watched halfway. Some I watched three times. My colleague is ten years younger. He writes code faster than I do. I asked him how he learned. He said by writing more. So I write more.

I exercise. The treadmill is on the balcony. I run thirty minutes every day. Four sets of squats. The arrows on my health report are fewer. A middle-aged man's presence runs on energy. Energy runs on the body. When the body is good, others get sleepy in meetings and I am still clear. That advantage compounds.

On the first day of the New Year, I went to the vegetable market. Few people were there. The auntie selling vegetables was shelling peas. I bought two handfuls of greens. She weighed them and said seven yuan. I scanned ten. She said she needed to give change. I said no need. She grabbed a handful of scallions and put them in the bag. I carried the bag back. The plastic cut into my hand. I switched hands.

On the second day, no one greeted me. The phone was quiet. I opened WeChat. The last message was from yesterday. I sent red envelopes to a few friends. They sent emoji back. After I sent them, I put the phone down. The pothos on the balcony needed water. I took the spray bottle. I sprayed twice. Water dripped from the leaves.

On the third day, I texted the barber. He had gone back to his hometown. He said he would be back on the eighth. I said okay. I touched my hair. It was a little long.

On the fourth day, I watched the Winter Olympics. Short track speed skating. A Chinese skater fell and got up again. I held the remote. I did not cry. I went to pour water. The kettle was heavy. I poured half a glass.

On the fifth day, I found the old post. Many comments. Some asked what I do. Some asked for advice. Some left phone numbers. I deleted the phone number comments. I could not reply to all the private messages. I wrote: I work in AI. I invest on the side. A-shares are hard. Don't try them lightly. Exercise. Keep learning. Then I closed Zhihu.

I posted an Alipay code: Wish the motherland prosperity and strength, wish everyone a Happy New Year. People claimed it. Some left comments: Thank you, boss. Some left: Good health. I put the phone on the table. The screen lit up for a while, then went dark.

On the sixth day, I made a rule for myself. Every month, I take out a sum of money. Call it a kindness budget. When it's gone, it's gone. No explanation. No ledger. No expecting anything back. That day I sent a red envelope to a delivery rider. When he arrived, some soup had spilled. He said sorry. I said it's fine. I scanned twenty. He froze for a moment. I said Happy New Year. He left. The sound of him running downstairs came through the stairwell.

On the seventh day, I went back to the office. In the elevator I ran into a colleague. He asked where I went for the New Year. I said home. He said he went to Sanya. I said that's nice. He asked if I lost weight. I said I don't know. He laughed.

At night, I opened my account. Green. I closed it. I went to the kitchen to cook noodles. The water boiled. I put the noodles in. My phone rang in the living room. I did not go get it. The noodles were done. I fished them out. I took a bite. A little salty. I added vinegar. Outside, someone set off fireworks. The sound was muffled. I finished the noodles. I washed the bowl. The water was cold. I dried my hands. Tomorrow I still have work.