The Financial Anchor: Funding the Life I Can't Join

My name is Caleb, and I am a human ATM for a dream that doesn't include me.

Sienna wanted to be an influencer in Los Angeles. She had the look, but not the capital. For two years, I worked two jobs—one as a data analyst, the other as a night security guard—to fund her "content." I paid for the ring lights, the high-end cameras, the designer clothes she "needed" for the shoots, and the flights to "Instagrammable" locations.

I lived in a studio apartment with a leaking ceiling while I paid for her luxury "coliving" space in West Hollywood. I justified it as "investing in her brand." I over-analyzed every time she tagged me as "Bestie" in a comment. To me, it was a placeholder for something more. To her, it was a label that kept me at a safe, profitable distance.

She finally made it. She got the brand deals, the blue checkmark, and the invitations to the parties at the Hollywood Hills. Once she reached 500k followers, her management suggested she "clean up her image." Apparently, having a tired-looking data analyst in her inner circle didn't fit the "luxury nomad" vibe. She called me and told me she needed "space to grow." She didn't offer to pay back the $60,000 I’d spent. She just thanked me for "believing in her when no one else did." I still follow her. I see her in the clothes I bought, sitting in the cafes I researched, laughing with the people I’ll never meet. I’m still working two jobs to pay off the credit card debt I accrued for her fame, and every time I 'like' one of her photos, I feel a tiny, pathetic rush of being part of her world.