The Invisible Mechanic: Why My Best Friend is Fixing Her Life While His Own Falls Apart

my name is marcus, and i’m tired of watching my best friend, david, disappear into the gears of a machine that doesn't love him back.

we’re in chicago, and tonight it’s ten below zero. we were supposed to be at my place, finishing our joint business proposal. it’s the biggest pitch of our lives—the kind that gets you out of a cramped apartment and into a real office. the deadline is 8:00 am tomorrow. if we don't submit, we lose the contract. period.

but at 9:00 pm, the phone rang. it was sarah.

she didn't ask how he was. she didn't ask about our project. she just cried. her car had broken down on the side of the i-90, and she was "scared and alone."

"i have to go, marcus," david said, already grabbing his heavy coat and his toolbox.

"david, the pitch," i reminded him, my voice tight. "we have six hours of work left. if you leave now, we’re finished."

"it’ll only take an hour," he lied, not looking me in the eye. "she needs me."

the architecture of a delusion

i followed him. i couldn't let him go out there alone in this weather, and part of me hoped i could talk some sense into him once we got there.

we found her parked under a flickering streetlight. she was sitting in her warm car—she’d called a tow truck, but cancelled it the second david said he was coming. why pay a professional when you have a devotee who works for free?

david didn't just jump-start the battery. he crawled under that car in the freezing slush. i watched him, his knuckles turning white then blue, his breath coming out in ragged clouds. he was shivering so hard the wrench rattled against the frame.

the "high" was written all over his face. every time she rolled down the window to ask, "is it fixed yet, davey?" he would beam. he felt like a hero. he justified the frostbite and the ruined business deal because he was her "only hope."

the spectator's agony

over-analyzing david is a full-time job. i see the way he looks at her—like she’s a holy relic and he’s the humble caretaker. i see the way she looks at him—like a reliable app on her phone that she only opens when there's a bug.

"you're such a good friend, david," she said, finally stepping out of the car once he’d wiped the grease off his hands. she was dressed for a night out.

"no problem, sarah. you're all set," david panted, his teeth chattering. "are you headed home?"

"actually," she said, checking a text on her glowing phone. "now that the car is fixed, i’m going to meet tyler at that new lounge downtown. he's been waiting for an hour!"

she didn't offer him a ride. she didn't offer to buy him a coffee to warm his frozen bones. she just hopped into the driver's seat, waved a gloved hand, and drove off, leaving us standing in the dark, oily slush.

the wreckage of a sacrifice

it’s 3:00 am now. we’re back at the apartment. david is trying to type, but his fingers are too swollen and stiff from the cold to hit the keys. he’s staring at the screen, but his mind is still under that car, basking in the memory of her calling him "good friend."

the proposal is half-finished. the deadline is five hours away. we’ve lost the contract. i can see our future slipping away, all because david wanted to be the mechanic for a woman who only uses him as a spare tire.

"we can still finish it, marcus," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"no, we can't, dave," i said, closing my laptop. "you fixed her car, but you broke our company."

he didn't even look sad. he just pulled up her instagram. she’d posted a video of her dancing at the lounge. the caption: "finally made it! nothing stops the night! 💃"

she didn't mention the man who froze his hands to get her there. and the worst part? david 'liked' the post within seconds. he’s failing, he’s broke, and his best friend is furious—but as long as she’s dancing, he thinks he’s won.