The Janitor of Her Heart: Cleaning a Life I’m Not Allowed to Share

My name is Cyrus. I work as a site inspector for a construction firm in Cavite. My job is to make sure every floor is level and every joint is tight. I take pride in order and cleanliness, which is probably why I’ve spent the last four years becoming the unpaid housekeeper for a girl named Tessa.

Tessa is a "creative." She does freelance social media management, which in her case means she stays up until 4:00 AM watching Netflix and wakes up at 2:00 PM feeling "overwhelmed" by the world. She’s always "recovering." One week it’s a phantom flu, the next it’s "mental exhaustion" from a three-paragraph email she had to send. And because I can’t stand to see her live in chaos, I’ve become the man who clears the path.

I’ve spent my Saturday mornings doing her laundry—separating her delicates while she naps on the sofa. I’ve spent my Sunday nights scrubbing her bathroom tiles because she said the "energy" of the room was making her depressed. I’ve even gone as far as meal-prepping her entire week so she doesn't have to "stress" about what to eat. I told myself I was being her support system. I thought that if I removed all the friction from her life, she’d finally have the space to love me.

Last Tuesday, she messaged me at work. "Cy, I’m feeling so drained. The apartment is a disaster and I have zero energy to even move. I think I’m coming down with something serious."

I left work an hour early, telling my boss I had a family emergency. I stopped at the pharmacy for vitamins and the grocery for expensive organic soup. When I got to her place, the sink was overflowing with dishes and the floor was covered in discarded delivery bags. Tessa was huddled under a blanket, scrolling through her phone.

"You're a lifesaver, Cy," she whispered, her voice sounding perfectly fine until she remembered she was supposed to be sick. "I just can't handle the 'adulting' today."

I spent three hours cleaning. I scrubbed the grease off the stove, mopped the floors, and folded three baskets of clothes. My back was aching, and I was still in my work boots, sweating in her un-airconditioned kitchen. While I was taking out the fourth bag of trash, her phone rang.

She picked it up instantly, her "sick" voice vanishing. "Hey, Jax! Yeah, no, I’m feeling way better now. A little 'self-care' goes a long way, right? Tonight? The new club in BGC? I’d love to! I need to get out of this house."

I stood in the doorway, holding a bottle of floor cleaner. "I thought you were too drained to move, Tessa."

She looked at me, not even blushing. "Oh, Cy, don't be like that. Jax is a DJ, he’s got a table. It’s a 'work' thing, really. It’ll help my mood! You’re so good at the practical stuff, but Jax... he just understands my 'vibe,' you know?"

I watched her get up, suddenly full of energy, and head to the bathroom I’d just sanitized to start her makeup. She looked at her reflection in the mirror I’d just polished and smiled.

"Thanks for the help, Cy! The place looks great. You’re such a 'steady' guy. Every girl needs a friend like you to keep her grounded while she flies."

She left an hour later, smelling like expensive perfume and looking like she’d never had a "drained" day in her life. I stayed behind for a minute, looking at the clean apartment. I’d spent my evening making her home perfect so she could feel good enough to go out with another man. I’d done the chores so she didn't have to, giving her the "recovery" time she needed to give her best self to Jax.

I’m home now, looking at my own sink full of dishes that I was too tired to wash. My phone just buzzed. It’s a photo of her and Jax at the club, neon lights reflecting off the glass of a drink I know cost more than my mopping bucket.

"Cy, I think I lost my keys at the club! Can you come get me? I don't want to wake up Jax’s driver. You’re the only one I can trust when I’m in a mess!"

I looked at my car keys on the table. My body is exhausted, but my brain is already calculating the fastest route to BGC. I’m an inspector, so I know a weak structure when I see one. I’m the foundation of her life, buried in the dirt and doing the heavy lifting, while she’s the decorative window looking out at someone else. I’m the man who cleans up her messes, just so she’s fresh enough to make new ones with a guy who wouldn't even know where she keeps the broom.