Break It Right Back—Megan Moroney You knew his past. Loved him anyway. You saw the way he carried the world — how it weighed on his shoulders, how he held his breath like it might all collapse again. You weren’t afraid of his ghosts. Not the Greek ones. Not the Roman ones. Not even the ones named Reyna or Thalia or something worse than a name: silence. He told you he didn’t believe in forever. You told him he didn’t have to — he just had to believe in you. And he did. Or maybe he said he did, just because he liked the way you looked at him like he was more than his war stories. But he left anyway. He said it wasn’t the right time. That Camp needed him. That his heart was still trying to figure itself out. But what he meant was: you scared him. What he meant was: he loved you — just not enough to choose you. “You knew my past,” you want to scream, “and begged me to try.” You tore open your ribs and let him walk right into the parts of you no one had touched — not even your worst days, not even your best ones. You dreamed out loud about futures with him in it — and he smiled like he wanted them, too. But now you’re standing in the rain outside New Rome, watching him fade into the distance, all medals and leadership and excuses. “You felt like you had to take my broken heart and fix it, just to turn around… and break it right back.” So go ahead, Praetor Grace. Tell your legion you couldn’t slow down for a girl like me. Say you tried — say it with those eyes, that perfect golden boy grief — and everyone will believe you. But you and he both know: He was never supposed to be like the rest. And gods, it hurts — how well he wore the lie.