The Ninety-Ninth Goodbye

Eliana POV:

The ninety-ninth time Jax Little broke my heart was the last time.

We were supposed to be the golden couple of Northgate High. Eliana Carter and Jax Little. It had a nice ring to it, didn't it? Our names were practically woven together in the school' s mythology, spoken in the same breath since we were kids building forts in his backyard. We were childhood sweethearts, the quarterback and the dancer, a walking, talking cliché of high school royalty. Our future was a neatly drawn map: graduation, a summer of beach bonfires, and then, two adjacent dorm rooms at UCLA. A perfect plan. A perfect life.

Jax was the sun everyone orbited. It wasn't just that he was handsome, with that easy, lopsided grin and eyes the color of the California coast on a clear day. It was the way he moved, a casual confidence that bordered on arrogance, as if the world was his to conquer and he was just waiting for the right moment. He was the king of our small universe, and I, willingly, was his queen. His family, newly wealthy from his father's ventures in the oil and gas sector back in Russia before expanding aggressively into the American market, had ensured Jax never wanted for anything. He carried an air of entitlement, an unconscious expectation that his desires would always be met, his path always clear.

Our history was a tapestry of shared moments. First steps, first words, first kisses under the bleachers after his first big win. I knew the scar above his eyebrow was from a fall off his bike when he was seven, and he knew the melody I hummed when I was nervous was from a lullaby my grandmother used to sing. We were intertwined, our roots so deeply tangled that the thought of separating them felt like ripping a tree from the earth.

Then, in our senior year, the perfect map was torn.

Her name was Catalina Manning, a transfer student with wide, doe-like eyes and a story for every occasion. She was beautiful in a fragile, broken-doll kind of way that made people want to protect her.

The principal, Mr. Davison, had called Jax into his office. "Jax, you're a leader in this school," he'd said, his voice earnest. "Catalina is new here, having a tough time adjusting. I need you to show her around, help her feel welcome."

Jax had groaned when he told me later that day, slumping onto my bed and burying his face in my pillows. "Another chore. As if I don't have enough to do."

"Just be nice," I'd said, running my fingers through his hair. "It'll be over before you know it."

I was so naive.

It started small. He'd miss our study sessions because Catalina "got lost" on her way to the library. Then he'd be late for our lunch dates because Catalina "needed help" with a calculus problem he'd already mastered.

His apologies were initially sincere, laced with the frustration of his "duty." He' d wrap his arms around me, kiss my forehead, and whisper, "Sorry, Ellie. She's just... a lot."

But "a lot" quickly became his priority. The apologies grew shorter, then devolved into dismissive shrugs. His phone would buzz with her name, and he' d step away to take the call, leaving me sitting alone with our cooling food.

The first time I threatened to break up, my voice trembled and my hands were slick with sweat. "I can't do this anymore, Jax. It feels like I'm sharing you."

He' d gone pale. That night, he showed up at my window with a bouquet of my favorite stargazers, his eyes filled with a panic I hadn't seen since we were fifteen and he thought he'd lost me in a crowded mall. He swore it would stop, that I was the only one. He didn't just want me back; he needed to be the center of my world, the one who held all the power. And I, desperately afraid of losing him, believed him.

The second time, after he ditched our anniversary dinner to drive Catalina to a "family emergency" that turned out to be a forgotten purse at a friend' s house, my threat was firmer. "We're done, Jax."

His apology this time was a long, heartfelt text, filled with promises and memories of our shared past. He reminded me of our UCLA dream, of the apartment we were going to rent by the beach. He knew exactly what levers to pull, what insecurities to exploit.

I caved.

By the tenth time, the twentieth, the fiftieth, it became a sick, exhausting dance. My threats, once born of genuine pain, became empty pleas. And Jax, he learned. He learned that my threats were hollow. He learned that I would always be there, that I couldn't imagine a world without him.

His arrogance solidified, fed by the constant reassurance of my inability to leave. My pain became an inconvenience, my tears a childish tantrum. "Ellie, relax," he'd say, his tone bored, as he texted Catalina under the table. "You know you're not going anywhere."

He was right. I hadn't. Until tonight.

The ninety-eighth heartbreak had come a week ago, leaving a lingering, bitter taste in my mouth. But this, the ninety-ninth, was different. It was a public execution of my last shred of hope.

It was a graduation party at Mason Riley' s house, the kind with a sprawling backyard and a shimmering blue pool that reflected the string lights overhead. Catalina, in a ridiculously short dress, was clinging to Jax' s arm, laughing a little too loudly at something he said.

He saw me watching them from across the lawn and met my gaze. There was no apology in his eyes, no guilt. Just a cool, challenging stare, daring me to react, to prove his continued power over me.

Later, she "accidentally" tripped near the edge of the pool, her eyes darting to Jax before she stumbled, pulling me in with her as she fell. The cold water was a shock, my dress instantly heavy, pulling me down. I sputtered, trying to find my footing on the slick tile. Catalina was flailing dramatically, crying for help, ensuring all eyes were on her.

Jax dove in without a second's hesitation. But he swam right past me. He wrapped his arms around Catalina, pulling her to the edge of the pool, ignoring my own struggle just a few feet away. His expression, when he looked at me, was not one of concern, but of exasperation, as if my struggles were an inconvenient interruption.

As he helped her out, his friends cheering, he glanced back at me, my hair plastered to my face, my body shivering, my mascara running down my cheeks in black rivers.

"Your life isn't my problem anymore," he said, his voice as cold as the water I was drowning in. It was a calculated cruelty, a final, definitive push to break me, certain I would come crawling back once I realized my "threats" were meaningless.

I managed to pull myself out, water streaming from my clothes. I stood there, dripping and humiliated, as he wrapped his letterman jacket around a perfectly fine Catalina.

I walked straight past them, past the pitying and mocking stares of our classmates. I didn't say a word.

"We're done," I whispered to the empty street as I walked home, the words tasting like ash.

He didn't believe me, of course. He probably thought it was just another turn in our tired old dance. He probably expected me to come crying back in a day or two.

He didn't even follow me. I glanced back once, and I saw him laughing, his arm still securely around Catalina.

Something inside me, a fragile, worn-out thing I' d been clutching for years, finally shattered into dust. It wasn't a loud explosion. It was a quiet, final crack.

The ninety-ninth time.

There would not be a one-hundredth.

I got home, my clothes still damp, leaving a trail of water on the marble floor of the foyer. I walked straight to my laptop, my fingers moving with a clarity that felt foreign. I opened the UCLA student portal, my heart a dull, steady drum in my chest. Then I opened another tab. NYU.

My fingers flew across the keyboard. I navigated to my application status, my acceptance letter glowing on the screen. There was a button: "Commit to NYU."

My parents' recent corporate relocation to New York, a move they'd been agonizing over, suddenly felt like a sign from the universe. They had wanted me to go to UCLA, to stay close, but they had always said the choice was mine. They were always supportive, though deeply invested in our shared vision of my future in California.

I clicked the button.

A confirmation page appeared. "Welcome to the NYU Class of 202X."

I stared at the screen, the words blurring through a sudden film of tears. But these weren't tears of heartbreak. They were tears of a terrifying, exhilarating freedom.

Then, I started erasing him. I deleted his pictures from my phone, my laptop, my cloud storage. I untagged myself from years of photos on social media. I took down the framed pictures from my walls, the smiling faces of a boy I no longer knew and a girl who no longer existed.

I gathered everything he had ever given me: the varsity sweatshirt I always wore, the mixtapes from our freshman year, the dried corsage from our first prom, the little silver locket with our initials engraved on it. I placed each item, each a small ghost of a dead memory, into a cardboard box.

The box felt heavier than it should have. It held the weight of my entire childhood.

The final item was a small, worn teddy bear he' d won for me at a carnival when we were ten. I held it for a moment, the worn fur soft against my cheek. I almost faltered.

Then I remembered his cold eyes by the pool. Your life isn't my problem anymore.

I dropped the bear into the box and sealed it shut.