Nothing Has Changed - By Chamith Hettiarachchi

Written By: Chamith Hettiarachchi

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In an evocative piece titled "Nothing Has Changed," Chamith Hettiarachchi invites readers to delve into the nuances of human relationships. This short story, part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, is a masterful exploration of the delicate balance between companionship and personal freedom. Hettiarachchi's narrative takes us through the quiet, often unspoken dynamics between individuals who share a unique bond, yet are bound by the constraints of their personal lives.

About the Work

"Nothing Has Changed" beautifully captures the essence of an unconventional relationship marked by routine, discreet interactions, and mutual understanding. The story vividly portrays the contrasting worlds of its characters, exploring themes of age, maturity, and the silent expectations we hold. Through nuanced dialogue and introspective moments, Hettiarachchi crafts a poignant narrative that leaves readers reflecting on the complexities of human connection.

Nothing Has Changed

Original Submission by Chamith Hettiarachchi

Nothing Has Changed

by Chamith Hettiarachchi

I saw her almost every Saturday at the supermarket. We rarely stopped to talk. By then, we had exchanged enough messages during the week to fill several years of conversation. Instead, we smiled as we passed between the aisles, sometimes exchanging a few words. Occasionally, her arm brushed mine as she reached for something on a shelf. We were discreet, or as discreet as two people could be while finding reasons to visit the same aisle twice.

She finished her shopping quickly. Living alone, she needed only a few things for the week. My trolley took longer to fill. There were groceries, toiletries, snacks for the children and whatever my wife remembered to add over the phone. My final stop was the liquor outlet, where I bought a bottle of hard liquor for myself and two cans of beer for her.

We usually parked beside each other in a quiet corner of the car park. By the time I arrived with my trolley, she would be waiting. More precisely, she would be waiting for her beers. She lowered her window as I approached and accepted the cans slowly, letting her fingers run across my hand. Then she slipped them into a dark shopping bag, wrinkled her nose in the way I liked and smiled.

“See you soon. On the chat.”

That was our Saturday routine. She was half my age, easy to talk to and very pleasant to look at. She was also my girlfriend, although we rarely used that word.

Only six years separated her from my daughter, but talking to them was an entirely different experience. My daughter was still a child. She needed reminders, changed plans without thinking them through and came to us when even a small decision became difficult. She was not ready for the world. My girlfriend lived alone, managed her own money and made decisions without seeking anyone’s permission. She knew what she wanted. With her, I was talking to a woman.

Once, I asked why she preferred me to someone her own age.

“They’re silly,” she said. “Everything becomes a problem. If I don’t reply, they want to know why. If I go out, they want to know who’s there.”

She wanted someone who understood that she had a life beyond the phone. Someone she could talk to without having to defend her decisions. She did not want to be treated like a child or questioned as though she had done something wrong whenever she needed time to herself.

“With you, I don’t have to explain everything,” she said.

I understood what she meant. At my age, there was little sense in turning every unanswered message into an argument. We both had work, responsibilities and days when we simply did not feel like talking. Being close did not require us to account for every hour.

We began with one clear agreement. If she met someone with whom she could build a future, she would tell me, and I would step away. I was married with children and would never leave my family. She was young and single, with choices still ahead of her. When the time came, we would part without making it difficult.

Until then, we enjoyed what we had. If she said she was busy, I told her to finish her work and message whenever she could. Sometimes she replied hours later, after I had gone to bed. I answered the following morning. There was nothing to settle between us.

Years earlier, I would have handled that differently. I would have sent another message, then another, asking what was taking so long. By the time a reply arrived, I would have been too annoyed to receive it kindly. Now I knew how easily a day could get away from someone. I had read messages myself and forgotten to answer them. A delay did not need an explanation.

If she could not come to the supermarket, I bought my groceries and went home. Once, she cancelled after I had already bought her beers. She apologised several times, and I told her they would keep until the following week. In the past, I would have made something of the inconvenience, ensured she knew I had been waiting and carried my disappointment into our next conversation. This time, I put the cans in the fridge and asked whether she had managed to finish what she needed to do.

“You’re very patient with me,” she said later.

“There’s nothing to be patient about.”

And there wasn’t. I had lived long enough to see beyond the immediate disappointment of not getting what I wanted. She could care about me and still have other things to do.

Occasionally, I asked whether she was seeing someone else. She said no, and I accepted it. I did not search her social media or look for contradictions in what she told me. That would have been familiar territory once, but I no longer had any interest in it. I respected her enough to take her answer as it was.

Our conversations gradually moved beyond flirtation. She told me about difficult days at work, disagreements with her mother and small achievements she was pleased with. I learnt which colleague irritated her and which friend she called when she needed advice. She remembered my meetings and asked how they had gone. Sometimes, before I had finished describing a problem, she made a remark that left me laughing at something that had troubled me all day.

Hers was often the first message I read in the morning and the last I answered at night. When something amusing happened, I saved it to tell her. Once, while standing in the supermarket on a Saturday she could not come, I picked up her usual beer before remembering.

Eventually, she invited me to her rented apartment. Until then, she had said her mother was staying with her during weekends. She admitted later that it had been an excuse.

“I wanted to feel comfortable with you first.”

I understood. Giving someone an address was different from giving them a phone number. She had needed time, and the invitation was hers to make when she was ready.

Being together was easy. She was comfortable with herself and with me, and whatever experience she had before we met was her own business. There was laughter, affection and none of the awkwardness I had expected on my first visit.

We did not spend all our time in bed. Sometimes she made tea while I sat at the small kitchen table. We ordered food, shared music and abandoned films halfway through because we had started talking. She rested her feet on my lap and told me about her day. I learnt where she kept the cups and how much sugar she wanted. Before leaving, I sometimes helped her carry the rubbish downstairs.

I liked those ordinary moments. We could sit quietly together, each doing something on a phone, until one of us found something worth showing the other. When it was time to go, I went, and later there would be a message asking whether I had reached home. We no longer had to fill every minute. It was enough to be there.

One afternoon, while we were in her room, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and let it stop. A few minutes later, it rang again. This time, she answered and stepped outside, pulling the door partly closed behind her.

I could hear her speaking softly, but not the words. I reached for my own phone and checked a message. Then I put it down. She was still talking, and I found myself watching the gap between the door and its frame.

When she returned, I asked who had called.

“A friend.”

She sat beside me and reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. I waited for her to say something more.

“Which friend?”

She looked at me, puzzled. “Why?”

“Why did you have to go outside?”

“I was taking a call.”

I wanted a name. It seemed a small thing to ask. She put the glass down and looked ahead, and I placed my hand beneath her chin and turned her face towards me.

“Who was it?” I asked, firmly this time.

She pulled away and stood. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then she looked directly at me.

“It’s time for you to go.”

I got up and reached for my things. “Of course. I’m not staying another second in a whorehouse.”

She said nothing. I walked past her and left.

On the drive home, I kept returning to the call. If there was nothing to hide, why had she left the room? Why had she refused to answer? By the time I reached home, I had begun fitting other things around it: delayed replies, missed Saturdays, evenings when she had said she was tired.

My wife was in the kitchen. She asked whether I had eaten, and I said I had. I went to the bedroom and sat with my phone in my hand. Only that morning, she and I had been discussing what to watch on my next visit. Now I could not be certain there would be one. I opened our conversation, closed it and waited for her name to appear.

For a few days, I did not message her. I expected an apology, or at least an explanation. I imagined her asking me to come over so we could talk properly. Once she told me who had called, we could put the whole thing behind us.

Eventually, I sent a simple Hi. When she did not reply, I sent another message asking whether she intended to keep ignoring me. Both were read.

I reminded her of our agreement. All she had needed to do was tell me if there was someone else. I would have understood. Had I ever stopped her from doing anything? Had I ever demanded her time?

She read those messages too.

I began writing longer ones. I reminded her of how often I had listened when she was upset and how readily I had made time for her. Then I accused her of using me. I told her she had mistaken my patience for stupidity. The word I had used at her apartment appeared again, followed by things I had never said to her before.

Sometimes I put the phone away, only to pick it up a few minutes later. I wanted an argument, a denial, anything that would require me to answer. I could not accept that she could read everything I had written and go on with her day.

After several days, I stopped. Our conversation, once filled with jokes and small accounts of our lives, had become a succession of messages from me. I scrolled past them to find the last thing she had written before that afternoon. It was a question about what I wanted to eat.

Her reply came a few days later.

Where is your maturity? Where is your understanding? Where is your respect? Who are you? Goodbye.

Then she blocked me. I read her message again, my thumb resting over the space where I would have typed a reply. I knew exactly what I wanted to say. Years ago, I had said it all before.

Under the Rain Tree by Chamith Hettiarachchi.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event celebrating the artistry of writers worldwide. This competition is a platform for storytellers to showcase their creativity and engage with a global audience. Participants contribute pieces that range from poetry to short stories, enriching the literary landscape with diverse voices and perspectives.

Thank you, Chamith Hettiarachchi, for sharing "Nothing Has Changed" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Your story provides a compelling look at the intricacies of personal relationships and leaves a lasting impression on its readers. We appreciate your contribution and look forward to seeing more of your work 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.