I'm sure you guys have noticed a lot of these out there, so I just decided to contribute to the growing archives of this topic. Thanks, guys.

Cold.

That's how she feels. That's how everything feels. The air, the food, the waters. Her heart. It feels like ice. She doesn't show it, of course. She knows she can't show vulnerability. Leaders are strong, brave, impassive.

She's not any of those things. Not without him, at least.

She spends most of her time filling the space he left, giving orders, helping to build, directing her peers. They are obedient, but she knows they wish it wasn't her. She does too. She's often spotted holding herself, and they all know it's because she wishes he was.

They all silently mourn him. But none as much as her.

She can't sleep. She knows that if she does, she'll only have nightmares anyway. She spends her waking moments sitting near the water, praying and hoping that maybe, just maybe, he'll wash up onto shore, to be with her once more.

The others worry, not only about him, but about her. The absence of her usual spirit bothers everyone around her.

So they search. They scour the country, every state, every bush, every 7-Eleven, hoping to discover him. She knows the gods don't want it that way. They never want it the simple way.

She hates that they took him away from her. She hates that they won't speak to her. Most of all, she hates and despises and loathes the fact that she might lose him again.

First the lightning bolt, then the fleece, then the General, then the labyrinth, even the Lord of Time, and still the Fates won't let him be.

She has a spark of hope now. A ship, taking months to build. To sail across the waters—the waters he loves so much, to find him. She'll find him. If it takes every bit of life in her body, she won't let him be stupid enough to get himself killed again.

Despite the others' protests, she uses all her skill, all her time, on the ship, dubbed appropriately the Argo II. She hates the idea that she'll be forced to go on another adventure. She's tired of being in constant danger.

No, that's not it. She doesn't want to go, because he's not there. To her, an adventure isn't worth venturing without him travelling alongside with her.

She stands silently at the prow. She's holding herself again. She misses the warmth of his arms around her, and wishes her own cold ones, wrapped around her torso, were his. She wishes the breeze that teases her hair, was his breath. She wishes the drop of water on her cheek was his lips.

Her brother watches her worriedly. She flinches when his hand lands on her shoulder. He asks if she's alright. It takes her a few moments to respond. No, she's thinking. No, I'm not alright. But she answers she's fine. She turns her back on him, goes back to staring pointlessly into the sea, cursing the god in the waters for letting him go.

The shore they wash up on is nothing but hostile. Its form flickers, from an air force recruit building to what she knows is truly there. She's the first one out of the ship, dropping into knee-high water, soaking her jeans, but she doesn't care. She ignores the calls behind her, her friends, her siblings, the people she's known for years. They know, though she doesn't show it, she would've charged through the gates if they hadn't caught her.

She hates that the one holding her back is the girl she'd been so cruel to once upon a time. The knowing green eyes stare into the gray as she whispers words the other doesn't listen to.

They approach cautiously. The stone gate is flanked with walls so secure not even a bird would breach them. Countless bows, swords, and menacing eyes bore down on the Greeks as they walk closer.

She stands at the frontlines. Her friends throw her warning glances; they know she's bottling up her feelings inside. They know she could explode at any second. She doesn't seem to feel their eyes on her. She's staring forward, calling up in Latin she's learned, commanding them to open the gates.

Yes, she's cold. Yes, she waits for him. Yes. She's crumbling inside.

But when she finally sees him, after months of holding in sobs, after countless punches into walls, after her heart breaking, she stares. She doesn't run to him, she doesn't kiss him impulsively, she doesn't pull him into her arms, like she so desperately needs to.

He's pushing his way through the crowd, shouting to hold their stances, don't fire, see what they want first. He stands in front of her now, the sea green eyes she's loved so much sweeping over them curiously. He looks back at a dark shape in the shadows, as if permission.

The figure nods stiffly.

He smiles at her politely, holding out his hand and saying the most devastating sentence she's ever heard in her life:

"Hi, I'm Percy Jackson, praetor of the First Legion; who're you?"

The campers are staring at her fearfully, worried she might burst into tears, or punch him in the face, or perhaps stab him in the spot they all remember she knows.

But she doesn't.

As they finish shaking and drop their hands, she clenches hers, mentally threatening her eyes not to spill any of the secrets she's holding inside.

And, as he begins to ask her a question, her followers know only a small part of her mind is focusing on his words.

And the worst part?

As he waits politely for her answer, he has no idea how much she's breaking up inside.

"Annabeth Chase, daughter of Athena."