"I'd tell you I miss you but I don't know how, I've never heard silence quite this loud. Now I'm standing alone in a crowded room and we're not speaking... and I'm dying to know, is it killing you like it’s killing me?" — The Story of Us

You and Walker were co-stars in Percy Jackson and the Olympians — a show that had the world waiting, breath held. You were Annabeth, he was Percy. Wise warrior and loyal hero. Lovers on screen. Soulmates in fiction.

But for a while, it wasn’t fiction.

Off-screen, something real had bloomed — sudden, electric, impossible to hide. A glance during rehearsals turned into late-night calls. Inside jokes became warm touches when no one was looking. The line between character and reality blurred faster than either of you expected.

You had fallen. Hard. Fast. And for a while, it felt like he was falling too.

This is looking like a contest of who can act like they care less...

But eventually, things cracked. Maybe it was the weight of fame, the pressure, or the quiet fears neither of you said aloud. Maybe love wasn’t strong enough when spotlight and silence collided. It didn’t end with shouting — just a slow unraveling. Missed texts. Short answers. Space.

Then came the silence.

You never had the big goodbye. Just... stopped. Like a chapter skipped mid-sentence. You’d tell him how much you missed him, but you didn’t know how.

And now, months later, here you were — dressed up for the premiere. Flashbulbs outside. PR teams buzzing. Everyone excited to see the show’s stars. And you were about to face the one person you weren’t ready to see.

You moved through the crowd, nerves coiling in your chest, sleeves tugged down past your wrists. You stopped at the giant seating chart, scanning names with a shaky breath.

There it was. Your name. Seat 4B. And beside it — Walker Scobell. 4A.

Your chest ached. It wasn't a coincidence.

It couldn’t be random. Someone arranged it that way on purpose. Like a twisted joke, or maybe a PR strategy. Put the exes together. The world still loved Percabeth — they didn’t care what it cost you.

The conversation’s dead. And I'm afraid to see the ending...

Your fingers brushed the edge of the chart. You felt suddenly small — fifteen again, unsure and aching, still hoping someone would choose you. Still hoping he would.

Then you saw him.

Across the room, in black, hair tousled like always, laughing softly at something Aryan said. But it wasn’t the same. His smile seemed thin, like it had been practiced. He hadn’t noticed you. Or maybe he had, and chose not to react.

I don’t know what to say, since the twist of fate, when it all broke down...

Your heart twisted. Did he still think of you? The walks on set. The whispered promises. The shared bracelets you both used to wear. Because you did. You hadn’t stopped.

Then — his eyes found yours.

Time didn’t freeze, but everything blurred. The voices dulled. The light dimmed. It was just the two of you and all the silence between.

He held your gaze for a second too long. You saw something flicker in his expression — guilt, maybe. Or longing. His lips parted slightly. Like he might say something. Step forward. Reach out.

Then someone tapped his shoulder. He looked away. And the moment disappeared.

You exhaled shakily, still rooted to the floor. Alone in a room full of people. Still not speaking.

Is it killing you like it's killing me?

Maybe he was fine. Maybe he had already moved on. Maybe the ache was yours to carry alone. Or maybe, just maybe, he was still pretending. Just like you.

The story of us looks a lot like a tragedy now.

Not all stories get a happy ending. Some end in silence, in things left unsaid. In two people sitting side by side, with miles between their hearts.

And this one? This was no longer a love story. This was a ghost of what used to be.