You tell him everything. How long you’ve liked him. How it’s always been him. How you couldn’t keep it in anymore.

He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens — hands in his pockets, eyes on yours, soft and unreadable. When you finally fall silent, breath caught in your throat, he takes a step closer. You brace for something — hope, maybe. Anything. But instead, he says only this:

“Hundred broken hearts, are not our fate.”

It’s quiet. Gentle. Not bitter. Not cruel. Just final. He looks at you like he’s sorry. Like he wishes your heart had landed somewhere else.

And then he walks away — leaving behind only the sunset, the silence, and those seven soft words.

You’re not one of a hundred.

You’re just… not the one.