» "She doesn't get your humor like I do." « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:16

You never imagined a world without Leo Valdez in it. From the moment you met, chaos and laughter followed like twin shadows. He was warmth wrapped in wildfire — the kind of person who could make the darkest moments glow with light. He had a habit of turning everything into a joke, and you had a habit of laughing even when you shouldn’t.

Somewhere along the way, friendship blurred into something softer, something dangerous. You fell for him — not all at once, but slowly, like a spark catching on dry kindling until your whole heart was aflame. But you never told him. You couldn’t. It was easier to pretend than to risk losing what you had.

And then came the explosion. The day the world went quiet. The day Leo Valdez died.

The silence that followed was unbearable. You’d wake at night thinking you could still hear him, his laughter echoing down the hallways of Camp Half-Blood, his voice teasing you about your serious face. You carried his absence like an unfinished sentence.

But Leo, in his impossible way, found a way back.

Only, he didn’t come back alone.

Calypso was her name — beautiful, ethereal, a goddess born of starlight and sorrow. When she stood beside him, you could almost forget that Leo had ever been broken. He smiled differently around her — softer, steadier. And every time he looked at her the way you wished he’d look at you, it felt like a knife twisting under your ribs.

Because you knew Leo — really knew him. You’d been there when his laughter masked exhaustion, when his hands shook from overworking, when he’d hidden behind a joke just to avoid breaking down. You were the one who remembered his favorite snack, who knew the difference between his real smile and the one he wore for everyone else. You were the one who listened, who saw him — not the inventor, not the hero, but the boy who just wanted to be loved for who he was.

You tried to be happy for him. You really did. You laughed at his jokes, smiled at his inventions, nodded when he spoke about her. But it felt hollow — like playing the supporting role in a story you were once part of.

Then one afternoon, he asked you to walk with him.

The two of you sat in the strawberry fields, the sky painted in lazy shades of gold and rose. The breeze carried the scent of summer — sun-warmed fruit and distant campfire smoke. For a long time, neither of you spoke. He fiddled with a half-finished gadget in his hands, the metal glinting faintly in the light.

“Oh, nothing…” he said at last, rubbing the back of his neck, that same crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Calypso and I got into a little fight again. I made a joke and she didn’t really appreciate it.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Guess not everyone’s a fan of my charm, ¿sabes?”

He laughed softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. You could see the exhaustion there — the flicker of someone who was trying too hard to pretend everything was fine.

You wanted to tell him that you missed him. Not the version standing before you, but the one who once built a mechanical dragon out of scraps just to make you laugh. The one who called you “mi corazón” when he was half-asleep. The one who hadn’t yet learned how to leave you behind.

The wind stirred again, gentle and cold, brushing against your skin. You looked at him, at the boy who had died and come back different — older, heavier, distant.

He looked back at you, eyes flickering with something that felt almost like longing.