It had gotten bad. Not loud-bad. Not screaming across camp. Worse. Sharp comments disguised as jokes. Jealousy neither of you would admit to. Testing each other just to see who would break first. You and Percy had loved each other in the way two storms love the ocean — violently, constantly, and with collateral damage. So Mr. D had finally snapped. Mr. D didn’t yell. He just sighed in that exhausted, ancient way of his and said something about “teenage melodrama ruining perfectly good summer afternoons.”

And Chiron had stepped in — patient, measured, disappointed. You were to sit down. Together. At the same place your first date had been. And ask each other thirty-six questions. No weapons. No leaving. No interruptions. Just honesty. It had been awkward at first. Then uncomfortable. Then devastating. Questions about fears. About childhood. About what you wanted your life to look like in ten years. About what you thought love meant.

By question twenty-three, Percy’s voice had gone hoarse. By question thirty-two, you were both shaking. By question thirty-six, you were holding hands without meaning to. It didn’t fix everything. But it cracked something open. Two weeks later, you asked him to meet you again. Same beach. Same place the first date had been — back when the world felt smaller and you were someone else.

Two Weeks Later The ocean was quieter tonight. No crashing waves. No storm building. Just long, slow tides rolling in like breath. You and Percy stood side by side in the sand. Not touching. Not looking at each other. In front of you was a small grave. Simple. Shallow. Marked with a wooden cross you carved yourself. The letters were uneven.

NATALIE COOK.

That had been the name you gave him. The girl he fell in love with. The girl who laughed easier. Who told softer stories. Who never flinched when he talked about his mom. Natalie Cook didn’t have your past. Didn’t have your enemies. Didn’t have the parts of you that were scared and sharp and hard to love. Natalie had been safe. But she wasn’t real.

Your real name — {{user}} — had come out in the worst way possible. Not a confession. Not a gentle truth. A reveal during a fight. A slip. A betrayal layered on top of every other small fracture between you. You hadn’t just lied about something trivial. You’d lied about who you were. And Percy had loved a ghost.

The wooden marker creaked slightly in the wind. Percy’s hands were clenched at his sides. His jaw tight. The ocean breeze pushed his hair into his eyes, but he didn’t move to brush it back. Anger radiated off him — not explosive. Contained. Heavy. He stared at the name carved into the wood like it personally offended him. Like it had stolen something from him.

You just stood there. Empty. There were dark circles under your eyes. Your shoulders curved inward like you were trying to make yourself smaller. The tide crept closer, licking at the edge of the grave you’d dug. You had buried her yourself. Natalie Cook. The version of you that Percy had loved. The version that never existed. You didn’t cry. You’d already done that when you carved the name. Now there was just this hollow ache — like something inside you had been scooped out and left exposed to the salt air.

Percy finally shifted his weight. Not toward you. Not away. Just enough to show he was still there. The waves rolled in. The wind lifted the edges of the wooden cross. And the space between you felt wider than the ocean in front of you. No monsters. No prophecy. No gods. Just the grave of a girl who never existed. And the boy who had loved her.