Dear Diary, My work canceled on me last minute. As a freelancer, I rely on gigs from different companies, so cancellations hit harder than they should. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I started to feel that familiar loneliness creeping in. I tried calling my best friend, but, as always, she didn’t pick up. She was probably at some random guy’s house.

“Dina”(not her real name) is my best friend. In fact, she’s my only real friend. She’s going through more than I am, though, and can’t handle sad or dramatic news. We’re close because we can be ourselves around each other—or almost ourselves. When she falls into one of her depressive phases, she disappears for weeks. And when I hit my own shutdown mode, deleting and blocking everyone to stop pretending everything’s fine, she understands. She gives me space, and when I reemerge, it’s like nothing happened. That’s just how we work.

She’s the only person who’s ever seen the real me. I knew I could trust her the night I stood on the edge of a rooftop, overwhelmed and ready to jump. She stayed with me the entire night, holding me, talking to me. The next day, we went out drinking, pretending it never happened. That’s the thing about us—we crave connection, but we both have a way of breaking the things we need most. She’s beautiful—so many guys want her—but the moment she starts to feel something real, she sabotages it. I think I’m the same. The only difference is she drowns her pain in alcohol. I’ve hardly ever seen her sober.

Feeling alone, I called “Bob”(not his real name ). Bob owns a gay bar where I sometimes work. When I first moved to the city, finding a job was hard because of my broken grammar. But Bob gave me a chance. That bar became the one place where I felt like I belonged. I was proud to work there, even though it gave me a bad reputation. You see, it’s not just a regular gay bar. When clients walk in, they pick the guy they like, and you keep them company, flirting, drinking, entertaining. It’s good money—I used to make around $1,000 a day just by talking and flirting.

I became well-known in the city because of that bar. Some people even wrote articles about me. I’ve been on TV a few times, and random strangers still ask to take pictures with me. I wouldn’t call myself famous, but I was definitely the most popular guy at the bar. Some clients would save for months or even years just to spend an hour with me. People flew from all over the world to meet me there. Even my coworkers admired me—or wanted to date me.

But eventually, I realized how much I craved the attention and money. I was afraid of ending up like the older guys who worked there—desperate for validation and willing to do anything for it. They were my friends, but I didn’t want to lose myself the way they had. So I pulled back, stopped working there regularly, and focused on finding stability. I wanted a real relationship, and I knew it would be impossible if I stayed in that world full-time.

Still, I can’t stay away from the bar for too long. It’s not about the money anymore—it’s about belonging. So tonight, I called Bob and asked if I could work. He said yes, of course. I texted one of my regulars to let him know I’d be there. He’s a wealthy businessman, runs several stores in the city, and is completely infatuated with me. I’ve always made it clear I love his company—but only at the bar. He buys me gifts, but I insist he brings them there. I never see him outside of work.

When I arrived at the bar, it was quiet. One of the newer guys was there—a kid who doesn’t like me. He only talks to people he finds attractive. Then there was another coworker who’s been there longer than me. He doesn’t interact with clients much, but he must be doing well—he drives a sports car and owns a penthouse in the city center.

Soon after I showed up, my regular arrived. We talked, had some drinks. I told him about my vacation plans, and he shared a bit about his life. But then his phone rang—one of his wives was calling. He had to leave.

Later, another client came over. He was nervous but sweet. We talked and drank a little. He said I was his dream guy and offered to give me a better life. It’s not the first time I’ve heard that. Working at the bar, I’ve been proposed to more times than I can count. Guys always want to take care of me. But call me old-fashioned—I want real love, not a relationship based on financial support. We talked for maybe 20 minutes, but he paid for the full hour.

By the end of the night, I’d made $400 in less than two hours.

When I left the bar and walked to the train station, I felt empty. Maybe it’s the city. Maybe it’s the work. Maybe it’s me. But no matter how much I try to find a place where I truly belong, it always feels like something’s missing

Syazaa's Dear Diary