Being on the quest was supposed to fix everything. You trained for it. Fought for it. Earned your place. And for the first fifty miles, it felt like it might actually be the thing that finally made you special.

Then Percy started doing… Percy things. He defeated the monsters first. Solved the riddles first. Got the gods’ attention first. Saved you once or twice — which made it even worse.

By the time you got back to camp, the story wasn’t yours. It wasn’t a team effort. It was “Percy Jackson’s quest, featuring two companions who helped a bit.” People swarmed him. Flowers, cheers, praise.

Your name barely came up at all. You stepped aside, letting the crowd take him, letting the celebration swallow the boy you’d fought beside. And while everyone else was congratulating Percy, you felt something burn in your chest — sharp, humiliating, lonely.

I was there too. I fought too. I mattered too… didn’t I?

No one noticed. Not even Percy.