The Invisible ATM: Five Years of Sending Love in Small Increments

My name is Silas. I work as a night-shift supervisor at a logistics hub in Davao. My life is a cycle of barcodes, shipping containers, and the blue light of my phone. For five years, my world has revolved around a girl named Kaelie who lives six hundred miles away. We’ve never met in person, but I feel like I know every corner of her life because I’m the one who pays for the lights to stay on in it.

It started on a forum for digital artists. She was talented but struggling, and I liked her style. I sent her a small "tip" to help her buy some new brushes. She messaged me to say thank you, and that was the beginning of my long-term ruin. We started talking every day. She became my morning coffee and my evening wind-down.

Over the years, the "tips" turned into "small needs." It was never a lot at once—that’s how she kept me hooked. It was twenty dollars for a prescription. Fifty for a broken phone screen. A hundred because her cat needed the vet. I told myself I was being a patron of the arts, a supportive friend, a "gentleman." But deep down, I was buying a seat at a table that didn't exist.

I’ve calculated it once, during a slow shift at the hub. Over sixty months, I’ve sent her nearly $12,000. That’s a down payment on a house. That’s a new car. Instead, it’s a collection of digital receipts and a "thank you" emoji. I justified it by thinking that if I was the only person who never said no, the only one who rescued her when she was down, I’d be the one she’d eventually want to be with.

"Silas, you're the only stable thing in my life," she’d tell me. "I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you to turn to."

Last month, she told me she was finally coming to Davao. My heart nearly stopped. I spent two weeks cleaning my apartment, buying new linens, and researching the best restaurants. I even bought a small diamond pendant, thinking this was the moment our digital life became real.

"I'm here!" she texted me two days ago. She sent a photo of herself at the airport. But she wasn't alone. She was standing next to a guy named Briggs, a guy she’d mentioned once or twice as a "friend from the gym."

"Briggs surprised me with a ticket!" she messaged. "He knew how much I wanted to see the city. We’re staying at that resort on Samal Island—the one you told me about! It’s so expensive, but Briggs said we should live a little."

I sat in my car at the airport parking lot, the diamond pendant heavy in my pocket. I realized that the "expensive" resort was likely paid for by the "emergency" money I’d sent her last month because she said her rent had been doubled. I had funded her vacation with another man.

I didn't tell her I was at the airport. I just drove home.

Last night, she messaged me. "Silas, help! The resort won't accept Briggs's card for the incidental fees and we’re stuck at the front desk. It’s so embarrassing! Can you send just $200? I’ll pay you back as soon as I’m home, I promise. You’re my hero, remember?"

I looked at the message for three hours. I looked at the diamond pendant on my nightstand. I’m a logistics man; I know when a shipment is lost and never coming back. But my hand was shaking as I opened the banking app. I’m so addicted to being her "hero" that I can’t stand the thought of her being disappointed, even if she’s disappointed in front of a man who isn't me.

I sent the money. I didn't even get a "thank you" until four hours later, probably after they’d finished dinner. "Got it! You're a lifesaver. Talk later!"

I’m back at the hub tonight, watching crates move across the floor. I’m thirty-two years old, I have no savings, and I’m waiting for a girl to notice me while I pay for her to notice someone else. I’m not a hero. I’m just a recurring payment in a life I’ll never be a part of.