“Where are the numbers?” Tracy Chou, a software engineer at Pinterest, asks in a blog post directed at tech companies withholding employee diversity data (including the one for which I am freelancing). How many women are working in tech, in engineering roles in particular? “The actual numbers I’ve seen and experienced in industry are far lower than anybody is willing to admit.” She offers Pinterest’s numbers: eleven women out of eighty-nine engineers. She says this is on par with the gender ratio of those graduating with CS degrees. “We have to be thoughtful about sourcing candidates and building the right culture, and we invest in deliberate efforts to connect with women in the community.”

I post it on the app’s Tech channel. A half hour later I receive an email from the contracted editorial lead: Hey, I got a complaint from HQ about that piece, so removed it. They didn’t love the critique. Plus, it’s not news, per se, and they want to keep it to hard-hitting news. Otherwise, great job with the picks today!

[...] Then there is live music played by an energetic group of men in their midtwenties to late thirties, including Rob on bass. But it turns out I hate the music, which is mostly screaming and loud drums. It reminds me of high school. For a moment, I feel sad for them, these grown men holding on to their teenage years, but then I feel sad for myself, because I don’t have anything that I am as excited about as they are about their band and its ear-piercing music. Carrying this sadness, which feels both delicate and heavy, like a big glass mirror, I decide it’s time for me to go.

“I’m going to go to China,” I say, with firmness. “I found cheap tickets already, and I’ve had my visa ready for a while.”

“When are you going?”

“In a couple weeks,” I say.

“That’s really soon. You’re coming back, right?”

He looks confused and hurt. The question surprises me. I hadn’t thought that far. But then, since he’s asked, since he’s suggested it, it occurs to me that there are other possibilities in leaving.

“Well, I have a ticket back, but I don’t know about after.”

“Oh. Okay,” he says.

“We can talk about it later,” I say.

We sit for an eternity of silence. I think about all of his flaws. The silence.

Now he’s opening his mouth to end it. “I’m going to miss you.”

For a moment, I feel it, too. Missing him, missing us. But then something inside me shuts off.

“Have you read the articles about race I sent you?”

He looks away guiltily. “I started, but then I got busy. They’re pretty dense. I’m going to finish, though, I swear.”