The Ninety-Ninth Goodbye

Eliana POV: An instinct I didn't know I possessed took over. Before he could turn, before he could process what he was holding, I lunged forward and snatched the envelope from his hand. He spun around, his face a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "What the hell, Ellie?" "What are you doing with my mail?" I demanded, clutching the envelope to my chest as if it were a shield. "I was signing for it," he said, rolling his eyes as if I were the one being unreasonable. "The mailman knows me. He knows we're... you know." He gestured between us, a vague, all-encompassing motion that was meant to signify our entire history. "I'm your emergency contact for everything. I sign for your packages all the time." The casual intimacy of his words was a sharp, painful jab, highlighting how deeply intertwined our lives had been, and how easily he assumed that permanence. "Well, you're not anymore," I said, my voice flat. "I'll be changing that." I took the electronic stylus from the stunned mailman, and on the signature line, I wrote my name: Eliana Carter. The letters were clear and firm. A declaration. From now on, you and I are nothing but strangers. I handed the device back and turned to go inside. "Wait," Jax called out. "Was there one for me? From UCLA?" The mailman shook his head. "Sorry, son. Just the one package for this address today." A frown creased Jax's forehead. A flicker of the same uncertainty I'd seen at the party crossed his face. "Are you sure? We both applied. They should have come together." His voice had a hint of demanding entitlement, assuming his package should also be there. "I'm sure," I said, my voice empty of emotion. He stared at me, his eyes narrowing. "How can you be so sure?" He was about to press further, about to demand an answer I wasn't ready to give, when his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket. He pulled it out, his expression darkening as he saw the caller ID. Catalina. "What is it now, Cat?" he answered, his voice tight with irritation. I could hear her frantic, tearful voice through the phone. She was sobbing about being scared, about noises outside her window, about being home alone. It was another manufactured crisis, another bid for his attention, and he, in his ingrained need to be the "savior," was falling for it. Jax's face, which had been focused on me with suspicious intensity, immediately softened with concern. The change was sickeningly familiar. "Hey, hey, it's okay," he soothed, his voice dropping into that gentle tone he now reserved for her. "Don't cry. I'm on my way. I'll be there in ten minutes, I promise." He hung up and shoved his phone back in his pocket, already turning toward his car. He didn't spare me another glance. He didn't say goodbye. The question about UCLA, the suspicion in his eyes-it all evaporated in the face of Catalina's latest drama. He was gone, leaving me standing on my driveway, the unspoken truth still clutched in my hand. He had his damsel in distress to save. He didn't have time for the girl he'd already destroyed. I walked into my house, the silence a welcome relief. I didn't need to say anything. He had made his choice, over and over again. And now, I had made mine. In the days that followed, I packed. I sorted through my life, deciding what was worth taking to my new future in a new city. Jax, meanwhile, was busy documenting his perfect summer romance. His social media, which he' d once barely used, was now a constant stream of updates. A picture of him and Catalina at the beach, her in a tiny bikini, him with his arm around her. A video of them on the Santa Monica pier, him winning her a giant stuffed animal, a cheap imitation of the one he' d won for me years ago. He was performing his new life, curating an image of happiness. The comments section was a chorus of support from our classmates. "Finally! The couple we've all been waiting for!" "You guys look so much better together!" "Sorry Ellie, but he's definitely upgraded." Each post, each comment, should have felt like a fresh stab wound. But as I read them, I realized the pain was dull, distant. It was like pressing on a bruise that was already healing. The sharp, searing agony was gone, replaced by a deep, heavy ache. It was the ache of a final death. The heart can only break so many times before it turns to stone. Mine was stone.