The Architect of Her Dreams: Why I Ruined My Life for a Girl Who Only Sees a Friend

My name is Kenji, and I am a master of the "long game"—or so I tell myself to keep from jumping off the edge of my sanity.

Here in Tokyo, the nights are neon and crowded, but I’ve never felt more alone than I do standing in the rain outside a luxury boutique in Ginza. I’m holding an umbrella over Hana, my arm aching, my shoulder soaking wet because I’ve tilted the canopy so far in her direction that I’m basically standing in a waterfall.

She’s peering through the glass at a designer handbag that costs three months of my salary at the convenience store. "It’s beautiful, isn't it?" she sighs, her breath fogging the window.

"It suits you," I say, my heart doing that pathetic, stuttering dance it does every time she looks at me.

I already know what I’m going to do. I’m going to skip my university tuition payment. I’m going to tell my parents I lost the money, and I’m going to endure their shame just to see her carry that bag for one afternoon.

The Anatomy of a Hidden Sacrifice

I over-analyze everything. Yesterday, she sent me a text: "You're so reliable, Kenji. I don't know what I'd do without you."

I spent four hours dissecting those thirteen words. Reliable. It’s a heavy word. It’s not "sexy." It’s not "romantic." It’s the word you use for a sturdy pair of shoes or a microwave. But then I focus on "without you," and the high hits. She needs me. I am the oxygen in her room, even if she doesn't realize she's breathing me in.

To get the money for the bag, I started working "triple" shifts. I sleep for three hours a day on a piece of cardboard in the back of the shop. My hair is thinning from stress, and I’ve lost five kilos. Every time I feel like I’m going to collapse, I look at the photo of her on my lock screen.

The Humiliation in the Light

I finally bought it. I walked into that boutique, looking like a beggar in a palace, and handed over a stack of crumpled bills. The sales clerk looked at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. I didn't care.

I gave it to her at a park in Shinjuku.

"Kenji! You didn't!" she screamed, clutching the leather to her chest. She hugged me—a real, crushing hug. For five seconds, the world was perfect. I could feel the warmth of her neck, the scent of her perfume. I justified everything. The hunger, the debt, the failing grades—it was all worth these five seconds.

Then, her phone buzzed.

"Oh, it's Hiro," she said, pulling away instantly. The warmth vanished. "He’s picking me up for dinner. He says he wants to take me somewhere fancy so I can show off my new bag."

She didn't ask how I got the money. She didn't ask why I looked so pale. She just waved a cheerful goodbye, her new bag swinging from her arm, and ran toward a sleek black car idling at the curb.

The Ghost in the Neon

I sat on the park bench for an hour after she left. A security guard told me I couldn't loiter, so I started walking.

I checked my bank app. Balance: ¥240. Not even enough for a bowl of ramen. My phone buzzed with a message from my professor: "Kenji, if you miss one more lecture, you will be dropped from the program."

I should be panicking. I should be angry. But instead, I pulled up her Instagram. She had already posted a story. It was a picture of the handbag sitting on a white tablecloth at a five-star restaurant. The caption was: "Best surprise ever. Feeling so loved today."

She tagged Hiro. She didn't tag me.

The "high" from the hug began to fade, replaced by a cold, crushing reality. I am the ghost who provides the luxury, and he is the man who enjoys the view. But as I walked back to my shift at the shop, my feet blistered and my stomach empty, I found myself wondering: What else does she need? What else can I break of myself to make her smile? Because the only thing scarier than losing my future is the thought of being "unreliable" to her.