You didn’t come.
You weren’t invited.
And yet you paid – again and again.
Not to accompany me. Not to witness a thing. But because your absence funds my presence. That’s what it means to serve: not to be chosen, but to be charged. Repeatedly. Silently. Without reward. Without recognition.
While I travelled, the invoices stacked up like luggage tags – first-class tickets, rooftop cocktails, designer receipts. Each one shared with no context. No photo. No face. Just a timestamp. Just a cost. And you didn’t hesitate. You couldn’t. You knew it was your role to cover them. Not once, but several times over. Because my pleasure demands excess. And your purpose is to ensure it.
I didn’t need your company. I needed your contribution. I needed your obedience in the form of overlapping payments – covering the same luxury more than once because you’re not competing for access. You’re competing to be useful.
Now that I’m home, I’m not thanking you. I’m checking the balance. Reviewing who did enough… and who didn’t. Because that’s the only metric that matters. Not how you felt. Not what you hoped. But what you covered.
The minibar you never opened. The silk you never touched. The lounge you’ll never see.You didn’t come. But you paid. And you’ll pay again. Because you’re not here to join me.
You’re here to fund me.