I Gave Her My Life, and She Laughed at Me

My name is Hiroshi. I’m from Japan, and I’ve been chasing the same girl for years. Her name is Aya, and from the very first time we met, I knew I wanted to be the one she could always depend on.

I didn’t start out thinking I was a simp. I thought I was being a good friend. I thought I was being patient. I thought that if I gave enough, loved enough, sacrificed enough, eventually, she would notice me the way I noticed her.

I was wrong.

I carried her bags when she had exams. I stayed up helping her revise papers. I listened to her complain about other guys she liked. I remembered every birthday, every little favor she mentioned, every brand of snacks she liked. I spent my weekends helping her move furniture, helping her fix her bike, helping her with projects that weren’t even mine to do. And I didn’t mind. I told myself I didn’t mind.

But there were nights I cried alone in my apartment. Nights I wondered why her happiness mattered more than mine. Nights I realized that no matter what I gave, it would never be enough.

The breaking point came last year. She invited me over because she was “bored and lonely.” I showed up, excited, thinking maybe this was a turning point. She laughed at my clumsiness, teased me endlessly, then told me about some guy she liked—someone I didn’t even know. She asked me to help her “win his heart.”

I froze. My chest hurt so much I could barely breathe. I realized at that moment that every favor, every gift, every ounce of time I had poured into her had only made me invisible in the one way that mattered.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry in front of her. I smiled and helped her plan, because that’s what I had been trained to do. To serve. To endure. To hope silently while my own heart broke in front of her.

It’s been months, and I still haven’t stopped thinking about her. I know I should. I know I deserve better. I know giving endlessly to someone who will never love you doesn’t make you kind—it makes you lost.

Sometimes I stand in front of the mirror and ask, “Hiroshi, when will you stop disappearing for someone who never sees you?”

I don’t have an answer yet. But writing this down is the first time I’ve admitted it to myself: that loving someone shouldn’t mean losing yourself. And maybe, just maybe, admitting it is the first step to surviving this.

Because if I don’t, I’ll keep giving my life to someone who will never even notice it.