Can you be my girlfriend? - By Chamith Hettiarachchi

Written By: Chamith Hettiarachchi

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Chamith Hettiarachchi invites readers into a contemplative narrative with "Can you be my girlfriend?", a short story featured in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Hettiarachchi's work, submitted in the short story category, offers a profound exploration of human connection and the complexities of modern relationships. With an evocative title, the story delves into the nuances of emotional intimacy and solitude, resonating deeply with the universal quest for understanding and companionship.

About the Work

In "Can you be my girlfriend?", Chamith Hettiarachchi crafts a narrative rich with emotional depth and realism. The story captures the essence of loneliness within intimate relationships, highlighting the protagonist's encounter with a client seeking solace and understanding. The mood is both poignant and reflective, exploring themes of unspoken desires and the silent burdens carried by many. Hettiarachchi's storytelling is characterized by its subtlety and insight, painting a vivid picture of the human condition through detailed imagery and empathetic dialogue.

Can you be my girlfriend?

Original Submission by Chamith Hettiarachchi

Can you be my girlfriend?

by Chamith Hettiarachchi

The room was small and ordinary. A bed stood against one wall, covered with a clean sheet that had faded from too many washes. Beside it was a narrow table holding a lamp, a box of tissues and a bottle of water. The curtains remained closed even during the day, and an old fan turned above us with a faint clicking sound.

A clock hung on the wall where both of us could see it. It was not a room anyone would remember with affection, but it was where I worked.

He entered slowly and closed the door behind him. He was neatly dressed, perhaps too neatly for the place, and looked as though he had considered turning back several times before coming upstairs. A wedding ring shone on his finger.

I had seen nervous men before. Some spoke too much. Others avoided looking at me until their nervousness changed into something else. He did neither. He glanced around the room and then stood near the door, uncertain what was expected of him.

“Take a seat,” I said.

He sat on the chair beside the table and rested both hands on his knees.

“What would you like to do?”

He looked down. For several seconds, the clicking fan was the only sound between us. Then he slowly raised his head.

“Can we talk for a while, if that’s all right with you?”

“Of course.” I looked at the clock and added with a grin, “But the clock is ticking. You have only fifty-two minutes left.”

He sighed, though I could not tell whether it was relief or disappointment.

At the reception, he had asked for the girlfriend experience. Men used the phrase as if it described one particular service. For some, it meant kissing and touching without appearing to hurry. For others, it meant being welcomed as though they had been missed. I had learned that the girlfriend each man wanted was rarely a real woman. She was someone created for an hour from whatever was absent in his life.

“Come here,” I said, patting the space beside me on the bed. “You can sit closer if you want to talk.”

He hesitated before leaving the chair. When he sat beside me, he kept a careful distance between us. His back remained straight, and his hands were clasped together as though he had come for an interview.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he began with work. He told me about a senior position that sounded impressive but had left him responsible for problems created by other people. His staff came to him for decisions, his superiors came to him for explanations, and his phone continued ringing even after he reached home. Everyone assumed he knew what to do.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Before I could answer, he continued.

His parents were getting old. His father refused to admit that he could no longer manage certain things alone, while his mother called whenever the smallest problem arose. He arranged their medical appointments, settled their bills and visited whenever he could, but it was never enough to stop him from feeling guilty.

“What do you think?” he asked again.

I opened my mouth, but he had already moved on to his children.

They were good children, he said. They had their studies, friends and lives of their own. He was proud of them. Still, they came to him mostly when they needed something: money, permission, transport or help with a problem. He could not remember the last time one of them had sat beside him simply because they wanted his company.

He twisted the wedding ring around his finger before speaking about his wife.

“We don’t really fight,” he said. “Maybe fighting would be better.”

He looked towards the closed curtains.

They spoke about household expenses, their children and what had to be done the following day. They ate together while looking at their phones and went to sleep facing opposite sides. There had been a time when she waited for him to return from work. Now she sometimes went to bed without noticing whether he was home.

He was not blaming her, he said. She had her own worries, and perhaps she was as tired as he was. He still loved her. At least, he believed he did. But somewhere between raising children, caring for parents, paying bills and becoming the people everyone depended on, they had stopped asking how the other one felt.

“I don’t know when it happened,” he said. “One day you realise you’re living with someone who knows everything about your life but doesn’t know what’s happening inside you.”

He turned towards me. “Do you understand?”

I nodded.

I had heard many versions of the same loneliness. Sometimes it came from men with families, sometimes from men who had no one waiting for them. They spoke of wives who no longer touched them, children who had grown distant, jobs that had consumed them and houses filled with people in which they still felt alone.

I never knew what the absent wives would have said if they had been in the room. Every story had another side that did not come through my door. I was not there to decide who was right. I was there to listen.

He continued talking, moving from one memory to another without waiting for questions. He told me about the early years of his marriage, when he and his wife had travelled everywhere by bus because they could not afford a car. They had once shared a packet of rice at a railway station and laughed because neither had brought enough money for two meals.

“I was happier then,” he said. “I had nothing, but I was happier.”

“What changed?” I asked.

He thought about it.

“Everything we wanted, we got.”

He gave a short laugh, but there was no happiness in it. I moved closer and placed my hand on his thigh. It was an ordinary part of what he had paid for, a gesture I had made many times without thinking. But he stopped speaking and looked at my hand. I began stroking his thigh slowly. His body trembled beneath my fingers.

Instead of pulling me closer, he reached down and took my hand. He held it carefully, almost formally, the way a nervous boy might hold a girl’s hand on their first date. His palm was warm and slightly damp.

We sat like that for a while.

Then he shifted closer and lowered his head onto my lap. I rested one hand on his shoulder and ran the other through his hair. His eyes closed almost immediately.

“That’s nice,” he whispered.

The tension slowly left his face. He was no longer the man who made decisions at work, supported his parents, paid the bills or answered everyone’s questions. For those few minutes, nothing was required from him. He did not have to explain, provide or pretend that he knew what to do. He only had to lie still.

Some customers paid for my body. Some paid to feel powerful. Others wanted silence, affection or the illusion that someone had been waiting for them. This man had paid to place his head in someone’s lap and speak without being interrupted.

After a while, he opened his eyes.

“I must be the worst customer you’ve ever had.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve seen worse.”

He laughed softly.

“People come here for many things. Talking is only one of them.”

He sat up but continued holding my hand.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You’ve been asking me things from the moment you arrived.”

“I mean something personal.”

I knew the question before he asked it. Men often became curious about my life after they had told me everything about theirs.

“How did you get into this job?” he asked. “Don’t you ever want to stop?”

I sighed.

Some men asked because they were genuinely curious. Others wanted to hear a sad story that would allow them to feel sorry for me. Pity helped them believe they were different from the other customers. If they cared about what had brought me there, perhaps what they were doing was not entirely wrong.

I could have told him many things. I could have given him the answer he expected or one that would have kept him awake that night. Instead, I smiled.

“If women like me didn’t do this job, where would men like you go to talk?”

He looked at me for a moment and nodded. He did not ask again. Instead, he began speaking about the things he had not said before. He told me about the night his father had been taken to hospital and how frightened he had been. He spoke about a mistake at work that nobody knew he had made. He admitted that sometimes he remained inside his parked car for several minutes before entering his house because those were the only minutes in which nobody wanted anything from him.

Every few minutes, he asked what I thought. Each time, he continued before I could answer. Perhaps he did not need my opinion. He only needed my attention.

The hands of the clock continued moving. Forty minutes became fifty, and fifty became fifty-eight. His voice had grown calmer, and the distance he had kept between us had disappeared.

A firm knock sounded on the door.

He looked towards it, startled.

“That’s your reminder,” I said.

“Already?”

“Your hour is almost over.”

He looked at the clock as though it had cheated him.

“Can I stay a little longer? I’ll pay.”

I shook my head.

“I can pay for another hour.”

“There’s someone waiting outside.”

He glanced towards the door. Until then, the room had belonged only to us. The knock reminded him that it never had.

“Just a few more minutes,” he said.

“The next appointment is already here.”

He released my hand reluctantly.

“Is he like me?”

“I don’t know.”

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know that either.”

The next man might want to talk. He might want silence. He might come looking for affection, control, escape or something he could not name. The request changed from one man to another, but the clock always began in the same place and ended in the same place.

“He has something to share too,” I said. “Maybe not in the same way as you. But for me, the hour is the hour.”

He stood and straightened his shirt. The man who had entered the room slowly began putting himself back together. He checked his phone, adjusted his belt and looked at his reflection in the small mirror near the door. Within minutes, he would return to the life he had described, and nobody there would know where he had been.

“Can I see you again?” he asked.

“Of course. Make an appointment at the reception, just as you did today.”

“Can I ask for you?”

“Yes.”

He took out his wallet, removed a few notes and placed them on the table beside the lamp.

“This is for you.”

I glanced at the money. It was more than I had expected.

“Thank you.”

“No,” he said. “Thank you. For listening.”

“That was part of the service.”

He moved towards the door and placed his hand on the handle. Before opening it, he turned back. For a moment, he looked as nervous as he had when he first entered.

“Can you be my girlfriend?”

I looked at him, smiled, and gave his cheek a gentle pinch.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “For an hour.”

Can you be my girlfriend? by Chamith Hettiarachchi.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is an esteemed platform celebrating literary talent worldwide. This event invites writers across the globe to showcase their creativity and storytelling prowess. Participants engage in various categories, including poetry, short stories, and creative writing, fostering a vibrant community of voices and narratives. The competition is a testament to the enduring power of words and the shared human experience.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Chamith Hettiarachchi for sharing "Can you be my girlfriend?" with the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your narrative offers a compelling glimpse into the intricacies of human relationships and the quiet yearning for connection. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to witnessing more of your evocative storytelling in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.