Receipts for a Face I’ve Never Touched

Receipts for a Face I’ve Never Touched

I knew it had gone too far when my credit card company called me in the middle of the night, and my first thought wasn’t panic, it was whether the charges would delay her package.

I’m in Tokyo. She exists inside my phone, framed by pixels and soft lighting, a voice note here, a laughing emoji there. We’ve never met. We’ve never even talked about meeting. That part stays suspended, like a word we’re both pretending not to see.

She mentioned once that cherry blossoms made her feel small in a good way. Two weeks later, I booked a premium sakura-view hotel room and sent her screenshots, not because she was coming, but because I wanted her to know I could imagine a world where she might. The room stayed empty. The charge did not.

I send gifts the way some people send apologies. Designer bags. Limited-edition skincare shipped internationally. Digital flowers that cost more than real ones ever should. Every purchase comes with a small internal promise: maybe this will be the one that tips the scale. Maybe this will make me more real to her.

When she says, “You didn’t have to,” my chest floods with warmth. I translate it into thank you. I translate silence into busy. I translate indifference into mystery. I’m fluent now.

I’ve memorized exchange rates. I know which courier clears customs fastest. I’ve paid for her meals without knowing the taste of the food, paid for her rides without knowing where she was going, paid for her comfort without ever being invited into it. There’s something intoxicating about solving problems for someone who doesn’t ask you to.

Once, she joked that I spoil her too much. I laughed, even though my hands were shaking. I opened another app. Another purchase. I wanted to prove that “too much” was a place I could live in.

Friends say I’m being used. They don’t understand the high. The moment her name lights up my screen after a delivery notification hits. The way my heartbeat syncs to her typing bubble. I feel chosen, briefly, intensely, even if it’s just for a thank-you sticker.

My apartment is small. Bare. I don’t buy things for myself anymore. My money has learned her name better than mine. Every receipt feels like a quiet confession I’ll never send.

Sometimes I imagine meeting her and realizing I’ve already spent everything I had before she ever looked at me the same way. Sometimes I imagine that look finally happening and decide the cost would still be worth it.

Tonight, I check my balance. It’s low. I smile anyway. She just posted a story about wanting something she can’t afford.

I already know what I’m about to do.