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Kim wasn’t trying to be nosy.
He really wasn’t.
He was curled up on Mon’s bed while his boyfriend showered, half-watching a drama on mute and half-scrolling through Mon’s iPad to find their latest shared playlist. It was supposed to be an ordinary Sunday night — until a soft ding caught his attention.
It was a message. From someone saved as “Tee”.
The heart shouldn’t have bothered him. But it did.
He didn’t want to tap it. He really, really didn’t.
He tapped it.
Tee: “Saw the pic you posted. You and Kim look good together. I’m really happy for you. Sorry for how we ended.”
The words sank in like cold water through a cotton shirt — slow, heavy, soaking deep into his chest.
We ended.
Kim’s stomach turned. There had been no mention of an ex. Mon had never really talked about anyone before him. He had just appeared in Kim’s life like sunlight through a window — bright, warm, sudden. Kim hadn’t thought to ask if he was the first.
Now he knew. He wasn’t.
He dropped the iPad face down, heart thudding louder than the rain tapping at the window. When Mon walked out a minute later, still toweling his hair and humming, Kim was sitting stiffly, fake-smiling.
“You okay?” Mon asked, nudging his foot playfully.
“Yeah,” Kim replied, voice tight. “Totally fine.”
He wasn't. And he wouldn’t be, not tonight.
Kim couldn’t sleep.
Mon had gone home earlier after their study session (and his shower), and Kim had kept it together until the door closed. Now he was lying in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, replaying the message again and again in his head.
He knew it was irrational. He knew people had pasts. He had a past, kind of — if awkward high school crushes and one mutual pining moment counted.
But it didn’t feel the same.
It didn’t feel like Mon’s past.
Mon had loved someone. Had taken selfies with them. Had posted them. Had healed from them.
That thought stung the most. That there had been heartbreak, growth, history — and Kim had never been a part of it. He was just… the next.
He rolled over and hugged his pillow, trying not to imagine Mon laughing with this Tee guy. Or calling him babe. Or tracing his collarbones the way he did with Kim now.
Why did it matter so much? Mon was with him now. But something in his chest — something insecure, sensitive, Kim-like — whispered that he wasn’t enough. That he was second place. That Mon had already loved deeply, and everything with Kim was just… leftover feelings.
His phone buzzed.
“Made it home. You good? You got super quiet tonight.”
Kim stared at the message.
He wanted to reply “Yeah” and move on.
But instead, his fingers moved before his brain caught up.
“Who’s Tee?”
He pressed send before he could stop himself.
And instantly regretted it.
It took exactly twenty seconds for Mon to start typing. Kim stared at the little “...” bubble like it held the weight of the world.
“My ex.”
Kim swallowed.
“Oh.”
“Kim. Please don’t shut down. Can I call?”
Kim hesitated. Then tapped "Accept" as the screen lit up with Mon’s name.
“Hey,” Mon said softly. His voice always had that calm tone at night, like lullabies and warm lights. Kim hated how fast it soothed him.
“Hey,” Kim mumbled.
A pause.
“You saw the message, huh?” Mon said gently.
Kim curled tighter into his sheets. “Yeah.”
“I was gonna tell you. I just… never knew when was the right time.”
“I didn’t know you had someone before,” Kim said. “I guess I thought I was the first.”
“You’re not,” Mon said. Honest. Soft. “But you’re the only one who’s ever made me think about staying.”
Kim’s breath hitched.
“Tee was a nice memory, but that’s all he is now — memory. It ended badly. It hurt. I moved on. And then I met you. And everything felt… different. Brighter. Real.”
Kim blinked away tears he hadn’t realized were forming. “But I can’t give you your firsts.”
“I don’t need you to,” Mon whispered. “You give me everything else.”
Silence. Then Kim murmured, “I hated how much it hurt. It made me feel replaceable.”
“You’re not,” Mon said firmly. “You’re irreplaceable, Kim. You know how I love? When I think about love now, it has your face. Your voice. Your annoying habit of stealing the blanket. It’s you. Not anyone else.”
Kim sniffled. “You’re good with words.”
“I’m good at loving you.”
A pause, then Mon added: “Do you want me to change the contact name? I never even think about it. It’s just... there.”
Kim bit his lip. “No. It’s okay. Just… promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t ever make me feel second again. Even by accident.”
“I won’t,” Mon promised. “You’re not second. You’re the endgame.”
Kim smiled. Just a little.
“Now, go to sleep,” Mon murmured. “And dream about me being hopelessly devoted to you, because I am.”
Kim finally let out a real laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yours.”
Mon’s room smelled like him — laundry detergent, faint cologne, and something warm and citrusy Kim had never been able to identify but always associated with comfort.
It was Kim’s first time staying over officially. Clothes packed in a too-small duffel, a toothbrush tucked beside Mon’s in the bathroom, and a tiny thrill in his chest every time Mon said something like “our room” or “our side of the bed.”
They'd spent the evening watching a dumb horror movie that Mon claimed wasn’t scary but still clung to Kim’s arm during the jump scares. Kim had laughed and made fun of him the whole time, secretly thrilled Mon needed him like that — openly, affectionately.
Now it was nearly midnight, and Kim was brushing his teeth when he heard a soft knock at the door.
Mon was already lying in bed, face half-buried in the pillow, scrolling his phone. He barely looked up when he called out, “Come in!”
The door creaked open, and Mon’s mum peeked inside, a fond smile on her face.
“Just making sure you boys don’t need anything. Want me to put out extra blankets? It gets cold near dawn.”
“We’re good, Mum,” Mon said with a sleepy grin. “Thanks.”
“Alright. Kim, you okay? Do you need anything?”
Kim wiped his mouth and shook his head. “I’m okay, thank you.”
Mon’s mum stepped in a little more, eyes scanning the room — the second pillow, Kim’s duffel, their half-finished snacks. She nodded, then turned to Kim with a soft smile.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I know Mon is too. He never brings people home.”
Kim blinked. “Oh?”
She chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “I mean it. He’s dated before, sure — but you’re the first one he’s introduced to me. The first one he’s ever made space for here. The first one he looks at like he’s... home.”
Mon let out a muffled groan and threw a pillow at the door. “Mum!”
She laughed. “It’s true! Don’t act shy now.” Then, with a wink to Kim, “He’s a good boy, but a stubborn one. You’ve softened him up.”
And just like that, she was gone — door closing behind her with a gentle click.
The room fell quiet.
Kim stood frozen in the middle of it, heart suddenly far too big for his chest.
Mon peeked out from under the pillow, cheeks pink. “She talks too much, I know.”
Kim smiled. Soft. Amazed.
“No,” he said, voice low. “She doesn’t.”
He climbed into bed, slid under the covers, and curled in close. Mon’s hand found his beneath the blanket without even looking.
“You really never brought anyone home?” Kim whispered.
“Nope.”
“Why me?”
Mon turned toward him, eyes sleepy but honest. “Because I knew you’d matter. And I wanted you to know everything about me — even the boring stuff. Like where I grew up. Who raised me. What my bedroom looks like when it’s not cleaned for guests.”
Kim blinked. “That’s not boring.”
“Good,” Mon whispered. “Because I want you to keep knowing me. For a long time.”
Kim kissed him. Slow. Soft. A little breathless.
He’d spent so long worrying about being second — about not being first — and now, with the weight of Mon’s quiet devotion wrapped around him like a blanket, he realised:
He was the only one that mattered now.
And that was more than enough.