The Human Diary: Listening to the Echoes of Every Man Who Isn't Me

My name is Arturo. I work as a floor supervisor for a BPO company in Cebu. In my line of work, I’m paid to listen to people’s problems and find solutions. I’m good at it—I have the patience of a saint and a voice that stays calm even when someone is screaming through the headset. But the one person I can’t seem to "resolve" is Janine.

Janine is a trainer in the same office. She’s the kind of girl who vibrates with energy, always talking, always moving. And for the past three years, I’ve been her unofficial dumping ground for every romantic disaster she’s ever had. I’ve convinced myself that by being the one man who actually listens, the one man who doesn't interrupt or judge, I’m carving out a special place in her heart. I thought that if I heard about enough "bad guys," she’d eventually realize I’m the "good one" standing right in front of her.

Last Tuesday, we were at a small coffee shop after our shift ended at 6:00 AM. I was exhausted, my eyes burning from the graveyard shift, but Janine was mid-rant, and I wasn't about to leave.

"And then, Art, can you believe what Vince said?" she asked, leaning across the table, her eyes wide with indignation. "He told me he couldn't come to my cousin's wedding because he had a 'basketball game.' A game! After I spent three hours helping him with his resume last week!"

I nodded, taking a sip of my cold black coffee. "That’s really selfish, Janine. You deserve someone who prioritizes your family events."

"Exactly!" she slammed her hand on the table. "Why are guys like this? Why is it so hard to find someone who just... cares? Someone like you, but, you know... with that 'spark'?"

That's the phrase that kills me every time. Someone like you. I’ve heard about the guy who cheated on her in Boracay. I’ve heard about the guy who ghosted her after three months of dating. I’ve heard about the guy who "just wasn't ready for commitment" but was engaged to someone else two weeks later. I have a mental encyclopedia of every man who has ever let her down. I know their names, their flaws, and exactly how they broke her heart.

I’ve spent hundreds of hours in these coffee shops. I’ve missed my sleep, I’ve cancelled plans with my own brothers, and I’ve even turned down dates with other women because Janine "needed to talk." I justified it by telling myself I was "building a foundation." I thought I was becoming her soulmate by being her best listener.

"Art, you're the only one who really gets me," she said, reaching over to squeeze my arm. "I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't vent to you. You're like my human diary. I can tell you anything and I know you won't try to get in my pants like every other guy."

I forced a smile, even though I felt like I’d been punched in the throat. "Of course, Janine. I'm always here."

An hour later, her phone buzzed. Her face lit up—a look she never has when she’s talking to me. "Oh my god, it’s Paulo. The guy from the gym I told you about? He wants to grab breakfast. I have to go!"

She scrambled to grab her bag, not even offering to split the bill for the coffee and sandwiches I’d just paid for. "Wish me luck, Art! I have a feeling about this one. He seems different!"

I watched her run out the door toward a waiting taxi. Paulo is the guy she spent four hours crying about last month because he forgot her birthday. But here she was, running back to him, energized by the very vent session that was supposed to make her see me.

I’m back at the office now, sitting in a coaching session with a new agent. My phone is on the desk, and I see a notification. It’s a long paragraph from Janine.

"Art! You won't believe what Paulo just did. We were at breakfast and he spent the whole time on Tinder! I'm so upset. Can we meet after work? I really need to talk this out with you. You're the only one who makes me feel better."

I look at the message, and then I look at my reflection in the dark computer screen. I’m tired. My bank account is lower than it should be because of all the "venting" lattes I've bought. I know that if I go tonight, I’ll just be hear about Paulo for three hours, and then I'll watch her go back to him tomorrow. But I’m already typing my reply, telling her I’ll be at the usual spot at 7:00 PM. I’m the supervisor of this floor, but I’m the lowest man in her life—the one who holds the umbrella while she waits for other men to stop raining on her.