At our major tech company, which champions a “wolf culture,” the office is always brightly lit at 6:00 p.m. The sound of keyboard clicks echoes throughout the room, as if whoever closes their laptop first has lost the race at the starting line.
Leo is the only exception.
Leo is a senior data analyst in our department—a middle-aged man who always wears a crisp, ironed white shirt and gold-rimmed glasses. No matter how urgent the project or how pressing the boss’s emails, as soon as the wall clock strikes six o’clock sharp, Leo closes his laptop, picks up his gray briefcase, and smiles at his colleagues still working late, saying, “See you all tomorrow.”
At first, everyone gossiped about it behind his back. Some said Leo got the job through connections; others speculated that his family was wealthy; and still others maliciously wondered if he was taking on side gigs. After all, in this industry, not working overtime is practically a “original sin.”
I was a new intern assigned to sit next to Leo. To show my enthusiasm, I stayed until 9:00 p.m. every day. Leo, however, continued to disappear at 6:00 p.m. sharp, without fail.
One day, the project reached a critical phase before launch, and the entire department was frantically racing against the clock. The boss posted in the group chat: “We must finalize the plan tonight. Thanks for all your hard work—the company will cover the cost of late-night snacks.”
A chorus of groans filled the room as everyone opened their food delivery apps. I stole a glance at Leo next to me, thinking to myself, “Surely he’ll stay this time, right?”
However, the clock struck six.
Leo saved his document right on time, stood up, and put on his jacket.
“Leo,” I finally couldn’t help but call out to him, my tone tinged with the impatience and confusion typical of a young person, “It’s so busy tonight, and everyone else is still here. Are you… really going to leave?”
Leo stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me. His gaze was calm—no guilt, no irritation at being interrupted. He pointed out the window, where the evening rush hour was in full swing: a sea of cars, their red taillights forming a continuous river of traffic.
“Look,” Leo said gently, “the sun has set, and the city is settling down. It’s time for us to go home, too.”
“But the work isn’t finished yet…” I muttered under my breath.
“Work is never-ending,” Leo smiled, a kind of clarity I couldn’t quite fathom hidden in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “But life is your own. If you sell your soul to the company, what will you have left to love your family with, or to feel the evening breeze?”
With that, he turned and stepped into the elevator. The moment the elevator doors closed, I caught a glimpse of his expression—it didn’t look like that of a deserter fleeing the battlefield, but rather like that of a hermit who had just completed a day of spiritual practice.
That night, I worked overtime until 1:00 a.m. As I dragged my weary body out of the office building, a cold breeze swept over me, and I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness. I looked at the unread work messages on my phone and was suddenly reminded of that carefree look in Leo’s eyes before he left work.
In that moment, it was as if I suddenly understood something.
We run frantically, thinking the finish line is a promotion, a raise, or financial freedom. But Leo had already reached the finish line long ago; he simply passed us by, then turned around and went home for dinner.
The next morning, I clocked in right on time at 9:00 a.m. and walked into the office. Leo was already sitting there, brewing coffee—the aroma filled the air.
“Good morning,” he greeted me.
“Good morning, Leo,” I said, setting down my bag and taking a deep breath.
I used to think he was an oddball, but now I realize he’s the only one who’s truly sober in this crazy world.
That colleague who always leaves work on time isn’t being irresponsible—it’s because he knows better than anyone else: leaving work is when life really begins.
