To appease the shame spiral of the frivolity, we all get hung up on resolutions—a January of bleak un-wellness disguised as a cleanse, focusing on our lats in the gym, enrolling in a French course because even Voldemort spoke two languages. We’re all looking for a sign of growth as the year passes. (As someone unable to swerve the Christmas tradition of clichéd reflection, may I remind you that living through a pandemic is its own success story.) We all know the stroke of midnight won’t erase anything, but the transition to 2021 is its own type of resolution. We have officially completed the year. A blank page despite the preceding dense prose of 2020. And though we can safely assume Emily will go back to Paris, the future’s pretty much unknown. In a way, 2021 is a mysterious crème brûlée: the flavor is yet to be discovered, but on January 1 the sugar will be glistening and ready to be cracked open. Grab a spoon.