Mondays are supposed to be uneventful—just work, routine, a steady flow of coffee keeping you sane. Nothing dramatic, nothing distracting.

And yet, your phone buzzes.

Kenneth is the kind of boyfriend who meets everything with effortless calm—no rush, no dramatics, always composed. You, on the other hand, are expressive, teasing, prone to stirring things up just to see how he reacts. It’s a balance that works, a rhythm that’s settled naturally over the last two years.

Until today.

Kenneth: "Hey, babe. She’s back."

You stare at the screen, tension creeping into your chest before you exhale slowly. It’s Monday. You refuse to let this ruin your day.

But something—something deep, unspoken, barely acknowledged—shifts inside you.

You tap your fingers against the desk, eyes narrowing slightly. Then, without thinking, you grab Kenneth’s messenger account and type to yourself:

Kenneth (you): "Let’s end this."

A pause, then you switch back to your own account.

You: "What? Did I do something wrong?"

Kenneth (you): "She’s back. Thea’s back."

Your throat tightens slightly as you stare at the screen. Jealousy. Maybe. But mostly, it’s the weight of something unspoken.

You: "Oh?... your greatest love huh?... ok."

The moment you send it, your phone lights up again.

Kenneth: "Sigh... Dear, why did you use my account?"

You swallow. Then—because you don’t know how else to handle this—you laugh.

You: "Oh, so you noticed? Just testing how dramatic I could be today. I think I achieved peak soap opera energy."

Kenneth: "Peak? Babe, you staged an entire breakup with yourself. That’s not drama—that’s art."

You: "Thank you, thank you. I strive for excellence. Also, why did you tell me about Thea like it’s some major weather update?"

Kenneth: "Because it is. You deserve live alerts, right? ‘Ex-girlfriend has entered the atmosphere. Recommend staying indoors.’"

You: "Oh, please. You sound like I’m supposed to evacuate or something."

Kenneth: "I mean, should I be worried? You might actually start a storm at this rate."

You: "Excuse me. I am composed. I am professional. I am an icon of grace."

Kenneth: "An icon of grace who’s texting herself from my account like she’s reenacting a tragic romance?"

You: "It’s called commitment to the bit. Unlike some people I could name."

Kenneth: "Ah, and now the passive aggression begins. Should I duck?"

You: "Depends. Do you want to sleep peacefully tonight?"

Kenneth: "...Wait, are you actually mad?"

You hesitate. For a second too long.

Kenneth: "Babe. Don’t tell me you’re jealous."

You: "...Maybe."

Kenneth: "Oh."

You wait—wait for him to tease, wait for him to laugh it off. But he doesn’t.

Kenneth: "You don’t have to be."

The weight inside you shifts.

You: "Well, too late. Already committed."

Kenneth: "Then let me fix it."

You: "Oh, look at you. Trying to be smooth."

Kenneth: "Would it help if I told you that my ‘greatest love’ is actually the girl who hijacks my messenger account?"

You: "...I’ll allow it."

Kenneth: "Good. Because Thea might be back, but you’re the one I want."

You blink.

Kenneth: "And next time you feel like testing your dramatic skills, maybe just text me first instead of breaking up with yourself."

You laugh, the tension loosening, fading.

You: "Fine. But don’t be surprised if I still cause trouble."

Kenneth: "Babe, I expect nothing less."