You and Percy had once been inseparable in a way that felt inevitable. Like gravity. Like breathing. You were never not together—not really—even when Annabeth stood between you, even when quests pulled you apart. There was always an understanding that you came first. That you were us before anything else.

Then Kronos happened. The war ended, but something in Percy didn’t come back with him. He stopped looking for you. Stopped sitting beside you. Stopped choosing you without thinking. Annabeth filled the space easily—quietly at first, then completely—and you felt it like a bruise that never healed. You reacted badly to everything after that. A pause. A look. A hesitation. Every small shift felt like abandonment all over again.

Percy tried to bend around you. To soften his tone. To manage your moods like unexploded mines. But he never defended you. Not once. Not when others whispered. Not when Annabeth frowned. Not when your name came up and the room went cold.

You cried alone, knowing your tears felt like acid on his skin—knowing you were hurting him even when you didn’t mean to. You pressed every button except the one that would let you in. When you finally noticed, really noticed, you tried to change. You softened. You stepped back. You swallowed your words and sang quieter songs—apologies, peace offerings, attempts at becoming someone easier to love.

No one heard them. Percy mistook your silence for punishment, because for so long, that’s what it had been. And now, with no warning, no understanding, he was afraid of you. You’d pushed him too far. And he didn’t have the words to tell you—so he acted instead.

He was with Annabeth when you saw them. Just talking. Normal. Easy. The kind of conversation that used to belong to you. You slowed, unsure, then gathered what courage you had left and stepped toward them. You didn’t hear what Annabeth said at first—just saw the way her mouth moved, the way her expression sharpened. Then you caught fragments. Your name. Twisted versions of old moments. Half-truths dressed up as concern.

You opened your mouth to speak. Percy moved before you could. He stepped in front of Annabeth—shielding her—and when he turned to you, his voice rose, sharp and unrestrained. Accusatory. Angry. Loud enough that nearby campers stopped what they were doing.

You froze. It wasn’t the shouting that hurt the most. It was the look in his eyes. Not frustration. Not exhaustion. Not sadness. Hatred. Raw and sudden and unmistakable.

And it took you completely by surprise—because you’d expected anger, maybe fear, maybe even guilt. But not that. Not from the boy who once couldn’t sleep unless he was pressed against your chest. Not from the boy who used to choose you without thinking.