I still have the club key card in my wallet. I haven’t used it in three weeks. Every day I don’t use it, I feel a little lighter. And every day, I get a text from someone inside: “Missed you at the launch last night. You’re not going soft, are you?”

The velvet rope is a curtain. The elite club is just a room with better snacks and worse conversations. And the real luxury? The one thing money can’t buy inside those hallowed walls?

It’s a genuine “How are you?” followed by actually waiting for the answer. I’m not sure yet. Maybe I’ll scan the card one last time. Maybe I’ll cut it in half. Maybe I’ll show up to the gala in sweatpants just to see what happens.

I’m writing this from a coffee shop in a normal neighborhood. The coffee costs $4. The chair is uncomfortable. The barista just called me “boss,” which is the least accurate thing anyone has said to me all year.

The club hosted a “fireside chat” with a famous disgraced journalist (rehabilitation tour, standard fare). Afterward, in the members’ lounge, I overheard two people I considered friends. Let’s call them Marcus and Leila.

That was the moment the spell broke. Not with a bang, but with a spreadsheet. These people aren’t friends. They aren’t even colleagues. They are nodes in a network. And networks don’t bleed. So, where does that leave me?

Marcus was telling Leila about a personal tragedy in his family. His voice was low. He was vulnerable.