The Rider Who Delivers a Love That Isn’t His to a Woman Who’ll Never Know the Price

My name is Jomar. I’m a delivery rider for one of those big apps in Metro Manila. I spend twelve hours a day fighting the heat, the smog, and the suicidal jeepney drivers just to earn enough for my boundary and a little extra. People see us riders as just a sea of colored vests, but under this helmet, I’m a man living a lie for a girl named Andrea.

Andrea lives in a small condo in Pasig. She works from home, and she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen—even through a half-opened door and a surgical mask. She has a boyfriend, Bryan, who’s been working in Dubai for three years. According to Andrea, Bryan is the "perfect romantic." Every week, she receives a gift: flowers, her favorite milk tea, or a box of gourmet cupcakes.

The truth? Bryan doesn't send any of it. Bryan hasn't even messaged her in two months. I know this because Andrea cries to me on her doorstep when I "happen" to be her rider. She tells me she thinks he’s just "busy with his career."

I can't stand to see her sad. So, I became Bryan.

I spend every single peso of my daily tips—and sometimes part of my base pay—to buy those gifts. I go to the flower shop, I pick the best roses, and I write a card in a handwriting I’ve spent weeks practicing to look like a guy’s. Then, I "assign" myself her area, or I just show up and tell her the app glitched but the order is hers.

"Look, Jomar! Bryan sent me my favorite ube cake again," she said last Tuesday, her eyes sparkling with tears of joy. "He remembered our 'monthsary' even from five thousand miles away. He’s so thoughtful, isn't he?"

"He sure is, Ma'am Andrea," I said, my heart feeling like it was being twisted in a vice. That cake cost me three days of gas money. I had to eat instant noodles for dinner for a week to afford it.

I’ve spent thousands of pesos being the ghost of her boyfriend. I’ve bought the "apology" chocolates when he didn't call, and the "just because" stuffed toy when she posted a sad status on Facebook. I’m the one sweating in the Manila traffic, skipping my own lunch to make sure her delivery is on time, all so she can keep loving a man who has forgotten her.

Last night, I was sitting at a gas station, counting my coins, when I saw Andrea’s latest post. It was a photo of her holding the expensive perfume I’d "delivered" that afternoon.

The caption read: "Even when we’re apart, he knows exactly what I need to feel beautiful. Thank you, my love @Bryan_D. Can’t wait for you to come home so I can thank you in person! #LDRGoals #BestBoyfriend"

Bryan commented on the post. It was the first time he’d interacted with her in weeks. He wrote: "Glad you liked it, babe. You know I always try my best for you. 😉"

I stared at the screen, my hands shaking. He was taking credit for my sweat. He was taking credit for the money I’d saved by not buying new tires for my bike. He was winning her heart using my poverty.

My phone buzzed. It was a private message from Andrea.

"Jomar, are you working tomorrow? I want to send a 'thank you' package to Bryan in Dubai. Since you’re my favorite rider, can you help me ship it at the courier office? I’ll give you a big tip!"

I looked at the message, then at my worn-out gloves. I’m a delivery rider; my job is to move things from one place to another. I’ve moved my money to her, and her love to a man who doesn't deserve it. I’m the bridge she’s walking on to get to someone else, and I’m paying for the privilege of being stepped on.

"Sure, Ma'am Andrea," I typed back. "I'll be there at 8:00 AM."

I’m going to use that "big tip" she gives me to buy her a bouquet for next week. I’m a rider, and I’ll keep riding until I run out of gas or out of hope, delivering a happiness that will never be addressed to me.