You and Percy loved each other in a way that rewired the world. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cautious. It was the kind of first love that burned straight through common sense and lodged itself somewhere permanent. He jumped into Tartarus for you. He killed for you. There was never a question—if it came down to you or the world, Percy would hesitate only long enough to apologize. You were his first love. And he was yours. That mattered more than anyone ever said out loud.

At first, it was intoxicating. Every touch felt important. Every argument felt survivable because the makeup always came after. The thrill of being chosen, of being needed, of knowing someone would burn the world for you—it was everything. But passion doesn’t disappear all at once. It erodes.

You broke up the first time like it was the end of the world. Camp mourned you like a death. People picked sides, whispered, waited. Percy looked hollow. You felt like you’d torn something out of yourself and left it bleeding in the dirt. So you got back together. Because of course you did.

Ten months later, Percy can’t even remember how long it’s been. He says nine months, then laughs and says it feels like nine years. You argue about stupid things. Important things. Nothing things. Everything feels sharp. Every conversation turns into a fight. Every fight digs up old wounds you both swore were healed. You’re toxic now. Everyone knows it. The worst couple at camp—too intense, too loud, too fragile. You hurt each other and then cling tighter, like letting go would mean admitting the love isn’t enough anymore.

And still—Everyone wants you together. Because once, you were everything. Because once, Percy Jackson loved you more than the world. Because everyone remembers the boy who jumped into hell for you and wonders how something like that could ever really end. Even you.