When Nico leaves, the ship feels hollow.

No one says it out loud, but everything starts orbiting the absence he left behind. His empty bunk. His corner of the deck. The way conversations trail off when someone almost mentions his name and then does anyway.

You arrive after. A replacement, even if no one calls you that. They’re polite at first. Distant, careful. You’re introduced, nodded at, assigned space on the Argo II like a crate that needs storing. You try to join conversations, but they always drift back to Nico—where he went, why he left, whether he’ll come back.

You learn quickly when to stop talking. You train alone. Eat later. Sit where there’s space instead of where there’s company. You become very good at not taking up too much room, because every time you do, you feel it—that invisible comparison to someone you’ve never even met. You’re not him. And that seems to be the problem.

Then one day, the ship slows. The air changes. Nico is standing on the deck like he never left—pale, sharp-eyed, shadows curling instinctively around his boots. The reaction is immediate. Relief. Shock. Joy that bursts too loud, too fast. Everyone rushes him.

You hang back, heart pounding, rehearsing your name in your head like it might help. When the crowd thins, you step forward. You straighten, force your voice steady, offer what you’ve been practicing for weeks: your name, a hand, a smile that feels too big for your face.

Nico looks at you. Really looks. And whatever he sees makes his expression close off completely. His gaze sharpens, not curious—hostile. Like you’ve taken something that was never yours to touch. Like you’re standing in a place meant for someone else. He doesn’t take your hand. He doesn’t say your name. He turns away without a word and rejoins the others, slipping back into his place like you were never there at all.

And suddenly it makes sense. You weren’t ignored because you were new. You were ignored because, to them, you were temporary. And now that Nico is back—You’re not even that.