Chapter 5: When Love Turns Cold

Marcus got bored. And it happened suddenly. We were sitting together on the balcony watching the sunset, my head on his shoulder, both of us silent. The moment was perfect. One second I was asking if he wanted a Coke, the next I heard him sigh. He said, “Autumn, I’m bored.”

The words landed like a punch. I felt the ground shift beneath me.

I must have looked ridiculous, because I just stared at him, not getting it at first.

I blinked, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me he was joking. But his face stayed blank, unreadable.

Until he stared at me with those dark eyes, full of weariness and indifference. “This kind of life is too dull. Autumn, I’m getting tired of it.”

His voice was flat, bored. I realized then I was just another chapter in his story, and he was ready to turn the page.

He’d always been like this—only interested in things that challenged him. He liked seeing innocent girls get corrupted, or wild women blush because of him. Once he got something too easily, he lost interest.

I saw it now, the way he craved the chase more than the prize. The thrill was in the pursuit, not the capture.

He craved novelty and challenge, and with so many temptations around, he treated love like a game. I remembered the time he flirted with a friend’s girlfriend just to see if he could make her blush. Playing house with me was already beneath him.

It was never about the relationship—it was about winning, about proving he could have whatever he wanted.

How could I expect him to love me forever?

How could anyone?

In the end, only the one who got too invested was left heartbroken.

I was left holding the pieces, wondering how I’d let myself fall so far.

I did the math later—from the time he started pursuing me, to when he loved me, to when he got bored and broke up—not even a year.

It felt both too short and unbearably long, a lifetime squeezed into a handful of months.

Everyone said a year was already a miracle for Marcus, that I should be grateful. As if I’d won some kind of consolation prize. Please.

I didn’t know what I was supposed to be grateful for.

Grateful for being discarded gently? For being handed a check instead of an apology? The thought made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Our breakup was anything but dignified. Not even close.

It was messy, raw, and embarrassingly public. I lost every scrap of pride I’d ever had.

It happened at a fancy restaurant. I clung to his shirt, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe. No matter what he said, I wouldn’t let go.

People stared, forks frozen mid-air. I didn’t care. All that mattered was holding on, even as everything slipped away.

All I could say, over and over, was, “Why don’t you want me anymore?”

My voice was hoarse, desperate. I knew I sounded pathetic, but I couldn’t stop.

If he’d felt any guilt, it vanished with my refusal to let go.

His eyes were cold, his jaw set. I could see the impatience growing with every second.

All that was left was impatience. Just that.

He just stood there, cold and expressionless, letting me cry.

He didn’t reach for me, didn’t offer a word of comfort. I felt invisible, erased.

When I wouldn’t stop, he finally lost patience and said, "We’ve been together a year. I’ll give you $750,000 as a breakup payment. If that’s not enough, aren’t you being a bit greedy?"

The words hit me like a slap. I felt my face flush—shame, anger, all of it boiling over. My chest ached, and I wanted to scream.

I knew he misunderstood. I knew I was making a fool of myself. When he first chased me, I’d been calm and controlled. I hadn’t loved him that much then.

I replayed the beginning in my mind, wishing I could go back—be that girl again, the one who didn’t care, who kept her heart locked up tight.

With someone like Marcus, the more you cling when he wants to break up, the more he’ll despise you. I remembered hearing about a girl who walked away with her head held high, and Marcus actually called her months later—just to see if she’d changed her mind.

I knew all that. But if love could be controlled, it wouldn’t be called love.

Logic had nothing to do with it. My heart was in charge, and it was driving me off a cliff.

I couldn’t control myself. My hands shook, my vision blurred.

I was drowning, and he was the only thing I could reach for—even as he let me go.

Sobbing, I begged him, “I don’t want the money. I just—I just want you. Please, Marcus.”

My words sounded tiny, even to me. I hated myself for saying them, but I couldn’t stop. “I just want you. That’s all.”

For some reason, he suddenly laughed—half-smiling, half-mocking—then looked down at me and asked, "Me? You think you could ever afford me?"

His laughter was cold, echoing in the empty space between us. I felt the last of my pride crumble. My stomach twisted, and I wanted to disappear.

When my friend came to get me, I was still crying uncontrollably.

She wrapped her arms around me, whispering, “It’s okay, you’re going to be okay.” I barely heard her. My world had shrunk to a single point of pain.

So humble and desperate. I wanted to vanish.

I saw myself reflected in the restaurant window—mascara streaked, eyes red, clutching at someone who didn’t care. It was a new low. Yikes, Autumn. Get a grip.

There was nothing left of the calm girl I’d been before.

I’d lost her somewhere along the way, traded her for hope that was never real.

Looking back, I don’t even know why I lost it so completely.

Maybe I just needed to believe in something, even if it was doomed from the start.

It was undignified and messy, but I guess I really loved him.

Sometimes love is ugly. Sometimes it leaves you sobbing on the floor, wishing you could take it all back. Sometimes it just wrecks you.

I regained my dignity the last time I tried to hold on to him. He was holding another girl in his arms, joking with his friends about me, saying he’d never date someone like me again—cold and distant on the outside, but a nightmare to deal with after a breakup.

The words stung, but I saw the truth in them. I was no longer his, just a story to tell at parties.

The girl in his arms pretended to pout. “You men are all so terrible.”

Her voice was high, teasing. She was playing her part, just like I once had.

I looked at him and finally realized how far I’d let myself fall. So I stepped back, one step at a time. My chest hurt, but I kept going.

Each step felt like a small victory, a reclaiming of something I’d lost. I walked away, head held high, even if my heart was still in pieces. I thought, You’ll be okay. Just keep walking.

After that, I changed all my social media, moved to a new city, and cut off all contact. I took the money he’d given me and bought diamonds—small ones, big ones, one-carat, five-carat, pink, white—stuffed them all in a metal box. When I shook it, it rattled like loose change.

The box sat on my dresser, a reminder of everything I’d survived. Each stone a little weight, sparkling and cold.

How ridiculous that people use these things to symbolize love. Diamonds are just rocks. I’d shake the box and laugh at myself.

I’d look at the box sometimes and laugh. Diamonds were supposed to be forever, but they felt hollow in my hands.