The Ninety-Ninth Goodbye

Eliana POV:

The next morning, I drove to Jax' s house with the heavy box sitting on the passenger seat. The sun was bright, the sky a mocking, perfect blue. It felt like the world hadn't gotten the memo that mine had ended.

His mom, Karen, opened the door, her face breaking into a warm smile when she saw me. "Eliana, honey! Come on in. Jax is upstairs in his room." She' d known me since I was in diapers; their house was as familiar to me as my own.

"Thanks, Karen," I said, my voice steady as I hoisted the box.

She frowned slightly at the box but waved me through. "He's been in a mood all morning. Maybe you can cheer him up."

I walked up the familiar staircase, each step a small echo in the quiet house. His bedroom door was slightly ajar. I heard laughter. A girl's laughter.

I pushed the door open without knocking.

And there they were. Jax was sitting on his bed, leaning against the headboard, and Catalina was nestled beside him, her head on his shoulder. She was wearing his football jersey, the one with "LITTLE" and his number printed on the back. The same jersey he' d given me after his first varsity game, the one I used to sleep in.

It was like a physical punch to the gut. The air left my lungs in a silent whoosh.

Catalina looked up, her eyes widening in feigned surprise before settling into a smug, triumphant gleam. "Oh, Eliana. I didn't hear you come in." She snuggled closer to Jax, a possessive little gesture. "Jax was just letting me borrow this. It was a little chilly."

Jax didn't move. He just looked at me, his expression unreadable for a moment before it hardened into impatience. "What do you want, Ellie?"

Not Eliana. Not Ellie-bear, his childhood nickname for me. Just Ellie. Curt. Annoyed. The lack of any familiar endearment was another small cut.

A wave of bitter self-loathing washed over me. What had I expected? That he' d be sitting here, pining for me? That he' d be filled with regret over his actions last night? I was a fool. An absolute, grade-A fool.

I remembered all the times he' d stood at my door in the pouring rain, begging me not to leave him. He had once driven three hours in the middle of the night just to apologize for a stupid argument. He had carved our initials into the old oak tree behind the school and swore he' d love me forever. He had played the part of the devoted boyfriend so perfectly, so convincingly.

He had used my love, my forgiveness, my inability to let go, as a safety net. He kept pushing, kept testing, just to see how far he could go before I' d pull him back. He' d made a sport out of breaking my heart, confident that I would always be there to piece it back together for him. His deep-seated need for control and validation, masked by his charm, had finally come to light.

But the glue had run out. The pieces were just dust now.

"This is it," I thought, the realization settling in my bones with a cold, hard finality. "This is the very last time."

I lifted the box. "I'm just here to return your things." My voice was eerily calm, devoid of the tears he was so used to hearing.

He glanced at the box, then back at my face, a flicker of something-annoyance? confusion?-crossing his features. He waved a dismissive hand. "Just throw it out. I don't need any of it." His entitlement was so profound he couldn't even grasp the weight of what the box represented.

His words were meant to hurt, to tell me that our shared history was garbage. And they did. But they also severed the last, threadbare cord connecting me to him.

Without a moment's hesitation, I turned and walked to the top of the stairs. His bedroom overlooked the two-story foyer. I leaned over the railing and simply let go of the box.

It fell, tumbling end over end, and hit the polished hardwood floor below with a sickening crash. The sound was loud, definitive. A sound of breaking.

I didn't look to see the contents spill out. I didn't need to. I turned back to the doorway.

"Wait," Jax said, his voice sharp. He was standing now, his brows furrowed. "What about your stuff? You still have things here."

He wanted a clean break too, it seemed. Fine.

"Take it all," he ordered, his voice laced with a cold fury. "I don't want any reminders of you in my space."

I didn't answer. I walked back into the room, my movements stiff and robotic. I started with the bookshelf. I pulled out the worn copy of The Great Gatsby I' d left here, the framed photo of us at junior prom, the ridiculous little bobblehead of a dancer he' d bought for me. I piled them in my arms.

The entire time, he and Catalina went back to their own world. He sat back on the bed, and she started chattering about some upcoming party, her voice grating on my raw nerves. She accidentally knocked over a glass of water on his nightstand, and I braced myself for his explosion. Jax hated messes. He was obsessively neat, a minor trait that sometimes hinted at a deeper need for control.

But he just sighed, grabbed a towel, and started wiping it up. "Be careful, Cat," he said, and his voice was gentle. A gentleness he hadn't used with me in months.

He used to get angry if I so much as left a book out of place. But for her, he cleaned up the mess himself.

Then he did something that made the blood in my veins turn to ice. He stood up, walked over to his closet, and pulled out a new, pristine football jersey. "Here," he said, handing it to Catalina. "This one's clean. You can have it."

My heart, which I thought had already been shattered, somehow found a way to break even more. I was numb. Utterly and completely numb. The pain was so vast it had become a void.

I finished gathering my things from the main room and moved toward his en-suite bathroom to get my toothbrush and face wash.

Catalina blocked my path. She stepped in front of me, a malicious smile playing on her lips. "Trying to get his attention, Eliana? Playing hard to get? It's not working. He's tired of your little games."

"Excuse me," I said, my voice flat.

"He's mine now," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss. "I'm going to UCLA with him. I'll be in his dorm, in his bed. I'll be the one he texts good morning and good night. I will erase you completely."

I tried to step around her, but she grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "Your parents are rich, right? What did you do, buy your way into his life? Well, money can't buy love. He loves me."

Her words were absurd, but the mention of my parents ignited a spark of fury in the icy void of my chest.

"Let go of me," I said, my voice dangerously low.

She laughed. "Or what? You'll cry to Daddy?"

That was it. I yanked my arm back, a sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through me. The movement was sharp, and she stumbled backward, her eyes wide with shock.

Just as she lost her balance, I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Jax.

Catalina' s eyes darted toward the sound, and in a split second, a look of pure, calculated cunning flashed across her face. As she fell backward, she reached out and grabbed the front of my shirt, pulling me down with her. It was a deliberate, malicious act, a theatrical performance for Jax.

We tumbled backward together, a tangled mess of limbs.

And went straight over the low banister at the top of the stairs.

The fall felt like it happened in slow motion. A scream tore from my throat, mixing with Catalina's shriek. We hit the polished hardwood floor below with a brutal, bone-jarring impact.

A searing pain shot through my head as it connected with the floor. I felt something warm and wet trickle down my temple. Blood.

Catalina was already crying, her voice pitching into a hysterical wail. "Jax! She pushed me! Eliana pushed me down the stairs!" Her performance was flawless.

I saw Jax's face appear at the top of the landing, his eyes wide with horror. He stormed down the stairs, his face a mask of thunderous rage. He rushed straight to Catalina, kneeling beside her, his hands hovering over her as if she were made of glass. He didn't even glance at me. His focus was entirely on his new obsession.

"Are you okay? Cat, are you hurt?" he asked, his voice thick with panic.

"I-I think my ankle is broken," she sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She did it on purpose! She said she was going to kill me!"

Jax' s head snapped toward me. I was trying to push myself up, my vision swimming, the pain in my head making me nauseous.

"Jax, I didn't-" I started, my voice weak.

"Shut up!" he roared, his voice echoing in the foyer. "I don't want to hear your lies!" His face was contorted with a fury that was absolute, unyielding, fueled by his need to believe Catalina.

"She grabbed me," I pleaded, tears of pain and frustration finally breaking free. "She pulled me with her."

"I saw you, Eliana," he spat, his eyes filled with a disgust that cut deeper than any physical blow. "I saw you yank her. Are you insane?" He refused to even consider my perspective, his judgment already made, his loyalty completely shifted. He wouldn't even look at the blood matting my hair, his entire focus on Catalina.

"Get out of my house," he said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl. "Get out before I call the cops."

He carefully scooped Catalina into his arms, cradling her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. As he carried her past me, he didn't even glance down.

I remembered a time when I' d fallen and scraped my knee, and he had carried me all the way home, kissing the wound and promising to fight off the "pavement monster." That boy was gone. In his place was a stranger, a cruel, cold stranger who looked at me with nothing but contempt.

All the explanations, all the years of love and devotion, all the pain and sorrow, died on my lips. It was useless. He had already chosen his truth.

Somehow, I managed to get to my feet. Every movement sent a spike of agony through my head. I left my things scattered on his floor. I didn't want them anymore. I didn't want any part of him.

I stumbled out of his house and into the blinding sunlight, leaving a small trail of my own blood on the pristine welcome mat.

I drove myself to the emergency room.

The doctor told me I had a concussion and needed three stitches above my eyebrow. As I lay in the sterile white room, waiting for my mom to come pick me up, my phone buzzed.

It was a picture message from a number I didn't recognize. I opened it.

It was a photo of Jax, his brow furrowed in concentration, gently wrapping an ice pack around Catalina' s ankle. She was looking up at him with adoring eyes. The background was clearly his bedroom.

The text underneath read: He' s taking such good care of me. Some people just know how to treat a girl right.

I stared at the photo, at the tender look on his face that used to be reserved only for me. I felt nothing. No anger, no jealousy, not even a pinprick of pain. Just a hollow, echoing emptiness. The part of me that loved Jax Little had finally, truly, died.

I deleted the message, blocked the number, and turned my phone off.