Loverboy (PERCABETH AU)

Chapter 30

Annabeth POV

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your ears and settles deep into your chest, making every heartbeat feel heavier, every breath a little more labored. I sank to the floor of my room, back pressed against the wall, knees pulled tightly to my chest, and let the tears come without restraint.

They were hot, heavy, relentless. I didn't try to stop them. I didn't try to wipe them away. They streamed down my face, dripping onto my sweatshirt, pooling against my elbows. I felt like I was drowning in them, swallowed by the weight of everything I'd been holding in, the love I'd thought was mutual, the future I had imagined that had just evaporated.

Percy.

Even saying his name aloud didn't feel real. It felt like a whisper of smoke, something fleeting that would vanish if I blinked too hard. I thought of him constantly, always—every laugh, every joke, every careless brush of his hand against mine. The little things I'd tucked into my memory, thinking they were mine alone, now burned like embers, reminders of a fire I hadn't known would go out so suddenly.

I buried my face in my knees and rocked slightly, letting the sobs shake through me. My hands clawed at the carpet, nails digging into the fibers as though I could anchor myself to something solid, something that wouldn't leave me behind. But everything was leaving me behind. Percy, the plans, the conversations, the warmth of his smile—gone.

I thought back to the morning, the way he had avoided me, his words to Jason echoing in my mind like a cruel loop I couldn't escape. "I need space. I can't breathe. I feel trapped." The words stung more than any insult, more than any fight could have. Not because they weren't true, but because they weren't meant for me. They weren't me. They were Percy. And yet they broke me, all the same.

I cried for the memories, for the moments that had felt infinite: the weekend nights curled up watching movies, the stolen texts during class, the way he'd brush his fingers against mine just to see if I'd notice. Every laugh, every smile, every quiet look he gave me—gone, or at least not mine anymore.

I thought about our plans. About the silly, tiny anniversaries I had insisted on celebrating, about the cake, the handwritten notes, the way I had tried to make every second feel meaningful. I thought about the way I had imagined him, imagined us, and how completely, utterly, I had failed to see that he might not feel the same, might not be ready for the world I had wanted to build with him.

The tears came harder. I couldn't breathe properly, couldn't think properly. My chest ached as though it had been hollowed out, leaving a cavity too deep to fill. I whispered his name over and over, soft, broken, almost desperate. Percy. Percy. Percy.

I hated him for leaving. I hated myself for loving him so completely. I hated the way my own heart had betrayed me, choosing to pour everything into someone who could not—or would not—take it.

I thought about all the little ways he had brushed me off, all the tiny signals I had ignored because I had wanted to believe he cared as much as I did. The casual glances he had given other girls, the way he sometimes hesitated before answering my texts, the sighs when I suggested yet another little plan—little things I had excused, little things I had rationalized. And now, with him gone, every one of those little things felt like proof that I had been blind.

Hours passed—or maybe minutes. Time didn't exist here, in this dark, lonely room where everything I had ever loved had been ripped from me. I didn't eat. I didn't move. I didn't even breathe properly. I just let the tears fall, over and over, until they blurred my vision, until the sound of my own sobs filled every corner of the space.

I hugged my knees tighter, pressing my forehead to them, tasting the salt of my tears. The room felt colder than it had before, though the thermostat hadn't changed. Everything about the house felt like it belonged to someone else now, someone who had never known me, never known my love for him.

And then, somewhere in the silence, a thought crept in. A thought I hadn't allowed myself to consider until now.

I have a life. My own life. My own path. My own future.

I wiped my cheeks on the sleeve of my hoodie, sniffling, my hands trembling. The thought was small at first, like a spark in a dark room, but it grew stronger the longer I held it. I thought of Stanford. The unopened acceptance letter sitting on my desk. The opportunity to go somewhere new, to be someone new, to carve out a space for myself without relying on anyone else.

But even that thought made my chest tighten. Because as much as I wanted to leave, as much as I wanted to escape the pain, I knew this wasn't just about geography. It was about Percy. About missing him before the plane even landed in California. About feeling like every choice I made now was shadowed by the hollow space he had left behind.

I stared at the desk. At the neat stack of papers, the boxes of books, the small trinkets I had collected over the years. And then I stared at the envelope, the bold letters: Stanford University. My heart thumped painfully, and I felt a strange mix of fear, thrill... and guilt.

I had been afraid. Afraid of leaving, afraid of change, afraid of stepping into a world where Percy wasn't. Afraid of the loneliness that would come, the ache of missing him, the uncertainty of a life without him by my side. But now... now I wasn't just afraid. Now I was determined.

I thought about what it meant to be strong. Not the kind of strength that hides feelings, that masks pain with jokes or bravado. The kind of strength that acknowledges heartbreak, that faces loss, that takes a trembling step forward even when every part of you wants to stay behind. That was the strength I needed now.

I picked up the envelope, fingers trembling, and held it close to my chest. I thought about Percy again—about his laugh, his warmth, the way he had made me feel alive. And I let myself cry, not just for him, but for me. For the girl who had loved too deeply, too recklessly, and who had learned that love sometimes doesn't last.

I opened the envelope slowly, savoring the sound of the paper ripping, the weight of the letter in my hands. The words blurred at first through the tears, but I read them again, slower this time, and a tiny, shaky smile tugged at my lips.

I was going to Stanford.

The tears fell again, but this time they were different. They weren't just sorrow. They were relief, fear, excitement, anticipation. They were the tears of someone taking her first step into a life that was hers and hers alone.

But even with the letter in my hands, even with the future staring me in the face, the ache didn't disappear. It was still there, gnawing at the hollow in my chest. Percy was still Percy, and I was still me. And for the first time, I realized that sometimes, being strong didn't mean being free of pain. It meant carrying it with you anyway, letting it be a part of you but not the whole of you.

I sat on the floor for a long time, holding the letter, letting the emotions wash over me. The ache in my chest remained, sharp and raw, but beneath it was something new. A spark of possibility. A tiny flicker of hope.

And then, for the first time since he had left, I allowed myself to breathe deeply. To imagine a future where I was strong, independent, capable. A future where I might still love, still ache, still miss—but where I would also live.

I pressed the letter to my chest and whispered his name one last time. Percy. Percy, I love you. And I always will. But I choose me now.

And with that, I stood—trembling, tear-streaked, heart still heavy, and yet, somehow, ready.

The envelope slipped from my fingers, landing on the desk with a soft thud. I didn't rush to pick it up. I let it sit there, a silent testament to a new beginning. A reminder that heartbreak and hope could coexist, that love could leave and life could move forward.

Because even if Percy was gone, even if my chest still ached and my hands still shook, I was still me. And for the first time, I wasn't just surviving—I was deciding to live.

And somewhere deep inside, where the ache met the spark of possibility, I knew this: I would go to Stanford.