Annabeth’s partner had always hated how Percy clung to her like some lost puppy. At first, they tried to brush it off — reminding themselves of the long-standing bond between the two. Percy and Annabeth had been through wars together, survived impossible odds, and leaned on each other when no one else could understand. It made sense that they were close. It made sense that their dynamic might blur boundaries at times. That’s what they told themselves, again and again. But over time, that reassurance turned hollow. The truth was harder to ignore. It was always them. Them here. Them there. They're everywhere. Percy by her side at camp meetings, Percy hovering near her in training sessions, Percy catching her eye with a grin that seemed to speak of something more. And Annabeth didn’t stop it. She laughed with him, leaned into him, let him tug her aside to whisper jokes that left her doubled over in laughter. To everyone else, it looked like perfection. Like they were the couple, the storybook pair. The cruelest part? Everyone seemed to think so, too. Friends, campers, even strangers who barely knew them. “Honestly, they look good together,” someone had said once, casually, without malice — but the words had cut deep.

Because Annabeth wasn’t with Percy. She was with someone else. The one who held her hand at night. The one who knew her softest confessions. The one who should have been recognized as her partner. Yet somehow, in the eyes of everyone else, that bond was invisible. Percy and Annabeth eclipsed everything. They tried to be patient. Tried to be understanding. Tried to be the supportive partner who trusted without question. But patience wears thin when trust begins to feel one-sided. Every laugh Percy pulled from Annabeth’s lips became another twist of the knife. Every arm draped over her shoulders looked too familiar, too natural. To Annabeth, maybe it was nothing. To her partner, it felt like slow erosion — their place in her life slipping away grain by grain. Eventually, frustration boiled over. They confronted Percy — not out of rage, but out of desperation. Out of the ache of being sidelined in their own relationship. But the reaction hadn’t been what they hoped. Instead of understanding, judgment rained down. Words like insecure, controlling, and jealous were tossed like stones. And Annabeth? She hadn’t defended them. She’d stood there, quiet and unreadable, as though the person she loved wasn’t worth standing up for. That silence hurt more than Percy ever could. So came the withdrawal. A day of silence stretched into three.

Three stretched into a week. They ignored Annabeth’s messages, her attempts at reconciliation, her efforts to coax them into opening up again. Because what was the point? It already felt like she had chosen a side — and it wasn’t theirs. The breaking point arrived like a storm. It was around midnight when Annabeth burst into the cabin, her grey eyes blazing with exasperation. She was done with silence. “Are you really that low that you couldn’t even trust me?” she snapped, her voice sharp as glass. “Gods, sometimes you’re so suffocating I can’t even breathe!” Her words ricocheted off the walls, too loud, too raw. She stepped closer, anger rolling off her in waves. “There’s nothing going on between me and Percy! I see him as a brother — that’s all he’s ever been to me!” But then, in the heat of the moment, she said the one thing she shouldn’t have. The one thing that lodged itself in the space between them like a blade. “Why are you so insecure over a joke?” The words fell heavy. Cold. The look on her face shifted instantly, regret flooding in, but it was too late. The damage had already been done. What had been anger became silence. What had been frustration became something deeper — a crack that neither apology nor explanation could mend. And for the first time, both of them wondered if love alone would be enough.