You can rent almost anything in Tokyo: a dog for an hour, a family for a holiday, a friend for a lonely walk home.

So when my roommate dared me to rent a boyfriend for an afternoon, I laughed and said yes without thinking too hard.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something else—a soft ache I’d been carrying, the kind that dating apps and endless swiping only seemed to make louder.

The agency’s website was clinical and efficient. You selected a man from glossy profile photos (smiling, approachable, always stylish) and booked your time like you would a table at a café.

I chose Riku. He looked like someone you could talk to about old records, someone who wouldn’t mind the quiet.

We met outside Shibuya Station. He was exactly as advertised: black coat, soft eyes, a polite bow.

“Shall we go for coffee?” he asked, and I nodded, suddenly shy.

For two hours, we walked the city like an old couple in a movie—visiting secondhand bookstores, talking about favorite movies, sharing cake at a tiny kissaten.

He laughed at my jokes. He remembered small details I mentioned. He asked me questions with real attention.

It felt… disarming.

Not romantic. Not thrilling. But safe. Easy in a way that modern dating rarely is.

I kept waiting for the artifice to crack—to see him check his watch, to catch a flicker of boredom or calculation behind his smile.

But Riku stayed steady, offering exactly what I had rented: presence. Kindness without expectation. Warmth without fear.

When our time ended, he bowed again and thanked me for the afternoon.

I thanked him too, suddenly and embarrassingly close to tears.

Walking home, I realized that it wasn’t romance I had been craving.

It was connection without performance.

It was being seen, even just for a moment, in a world that often feels designed to keep us hidden behind screens and avatars and curated profiles.

In the record shop where I work, people come in looking for lost sounds—songs that once meant something, or memories they can’t quite name.

Maybe we’re all doing the same thing. Renting, borrowing, searching—for something real, even if it only lasts the length of a song or an afternoon.

I don’t think I’ll rent another boyfriend.

But I don’t regret it either.

In a city that can make you feel invisible even in a crowd, it reminded me that loneliness isn’t weakness. It’s proof that we’re still reaching out, still hoping, still human.

By Hana Mori | The Asian Diaries | Tokyo

Hana Mori works part-time at a vintage record store in Tokyo’s Shimokitazawa neighborhood and writes about culture, identity, and the quiet contradictions of modern life. Born and raised in Hokkaido, she moved to Tokyo in her twenties and believes that some of the best conversations happen over scratched vinyl and secondhand coffee.