Final Breakup: No. 100

Thor Bentley and I grew up together—we were true childhood sweethearts.

We were neighbors from the day we were born. We attended the same schools from kindergarten to high school, and we were always in the same class.

At sixteen, we confessed our feelings for each other.

At eighteen, during our coming-of-age ceremony, our families made it official with an engagement.

We'd promised to enter the same university, graduate together, and marry right after senior year.

Everyone envied us. They said we were a perfect match—meant for each other in this life and the next. And I believed that too. I thought I would grow old by his side, until the final semester of our senior year in high school, when a new transfer student named Lina Prescott joined our class.

Lina was strikingly beautiful and bold, her arrival turning heads the moment she stepped through the door. Even the teachers adored her.

When the seating was arranged, our homeroom teacher paired her with Thor, saying her grades were poor and she needed his help.

Thor, cold and aloof by nature, wasn't interested in tutoring anyone. But the teacher pressed him with guilt, saying, "You're part of the class committee. It's your duty to help a struggling classmate."

He had no choice but to agree.

At first, they barely spoke. But as time passed, their closeness grew—too close.

He began staying after school to tutor her, bringing her breakfast every morning. When she was upset, he'd take her for drives along the coast. If she wanted Italian steak, he'd have fresh cuts flown in. Even during her period, he'd prepare everything she needed without being asked.

What he did had long surpassed the bounds of ordinary friendship. And little by little, the time he used to spend with me faded away.

I was furious. I argued with him, cried, made scenes—eventually, I brought up breaking up.

The first time I said it, he thought I was joking and soothed me patiently.

The second time, he dismissed it as one of my tempers and tried every way he knew to coax me.

The third time, he broke down—standing outside my house all night in the pouring rain, half kneeling before me, begging for forgiveness.

Time and time again, I said I wanted to leave, and each time, he refused to let me go. Yet with every reconciliation, something in him changed.

He began to assume I would always forgive him. That no matter what he did, I would never leave.

He lost his patience. He stopped trying to comfort me sincerely. Even when he came to make peace, his tone carried nothing but perfunctory weariness.

Then came Halloween.

The school was hosting an outdoor event, and the night air was cold. Lina shivered, saying she felt chilly, and without hesitation, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders—completely ignoring me, though I had said the same.

In that moment, every disappointment I'd buried, every ache I'd endured, erupted all at once. I stood up, staring at the two of them sitting so close together, and said coldly, "Thor, we're done."

He didn't even look up. "Don't make a scene," he said flatly.

I heard the impatience in his voice and couldn't help a bitter smile. Then I turned and walked away without another word.

He didn't follow. He didn't even offer to drive me home. Perhaps he thought that after a few days, my temper would cool; that when he finally decided to coax me again, I would, like always, forgive him.

But as I glanced back one last time, I saw him lift a grape to Lina's lips. Her lips brushed his fingertips, and my heart trembled.

In that instant, I finally understood that I no longer held the same place in his heart.

The heart he had wounded and worn down over and over again no longer longed for his warmth or his love. That was the hundredth time I said goodbye. And the one time I truly meant it.