Good Morning, My Love

At 9:03 every morning, Lars received the same message.

Good morning my love. You sleep good?

The spelling never changed. Neither did the pink heart.

Lars considered this consistency romantic.

In Sweden, nobody had checked whether he slept well for years. In Phuket, Mint asked before he had even made coffee.

He began transferring small amounts. Not because she asked directly. Her room was late. Her motorbike needed service. Her younger brother required a school uniform at a surprisingly advanced age.

The messages became more affectionate.

Then Lars met Peter at a bar in Rawai.

They compared photographs, as foreign men in Thailand eventually do when pretending not to compare experiences.

Peter showed him a Line message.

Good morning my love. You sleep good?

Same spelling. Same heart. Sent at 9:01.

The woman in Peter’s photograph was Mint.

Lars felt sick.

They waited for the next morning like detectives conducting a highly emotional experiment.

At 9:02, both phones lit up.

Peter received a pink heart.

Lars received two.

This somehow made it worse.

That evening, Lars confronted Mint.

She did not deny Peter.

“He help sometimes,” she said.

“And me?”

“You help sometimes too.”

Lars wanted to know which relationship was real.

Mint looked confused by the question. She liked Lars. She liked Peter less. She trusted neither of them to remain in Thailand. The rent, however, remained every month.

The next morning, no message arrived.

At 9:17, Lars finally wrote first.

Good morning my love. You sleep good?

Mint replied with one pink heart.

He decided not to ask whether Peter received two.