Two weeks is a suggestion,
not a sentence.
You don't owe the calendar anything. You don't owe a smooth handoff to the structure that wore you down. You owe an honest letter, and the rest is a courtesy you choose to extend.
On the letter.
A resignation letter is a small thing — a few paragraphs, a button marked send. It is also the moment a sentence about your life rearranges itself. The letter is short on purpose. It carries everything anyway.
Most people draft it for months before they send it. We'd like you to send it sooner.
On the timing.
“Effective immediately” is not a tantrum. It is, sometimes, the only honest answer to a question that should have been asked years earlier.
Two weeks is a custom, not a contract. It is a polite fiction, useful when both sides are still pretending they want the same things. The moment that pretense breaks, the fiction does too.
On the audience.
The letter is not for HR. The letter is not for your manager. The letter is for the version of you who reads it in twenty years and recognizes the person who wrote it. Write that one.
On the tone.
Polite. Cryptic. Burning bridge. Petty. Saint. Each one is a real register that real people use. None of them is a moral failure. The worst tone is the one that pretends you weren't there.
On what comes after.
The first Monday after the last Monday is the strangest day a calendar can hold. Nothing is on it. That is not a problem. That is a permission slip.
On us.
iQuit. is anonymous on purpose. We don't track you. We don't sell you. We don't tell anyone you were here. We don't even know who you are. We just believe you should leave when it's time, and that the moment between deciding and sending is the loneliest one in a working life.
This is the company we wish had existed when we sent ours.
Designed for the moment you stop pretending.