A/N: Something I decided to write out before I left for Nationals. OC POV, and only slightly angsty. I think.
I used to look at him, I will admit. Often my eyes would go to where he was; his own pair usually laughing along with him. Sometimes I would sneak into the arena just to see sweat pour down his body while it moves so swiftly you would think he was gymnast. More times than I am proud of, as I usually am about other things, I would wake up early to see his silhouette take a bath.
I confess. It is not early by mortal standards at all. But for a nymph, the noon is to us what midnight is to most. Obsessively morn. The other nymphs often call me things I would rather not repeat because of it. I am nothing more than air to him, they say. I exist, but he will never see me. They ask me what is my intentions toward this scrawny boy. When I do not answer, they assume it is sinister. Immoral. Unfitting and despicable.
They refuse to hear when I tell them I am merely curious. They refuse to hear when I scream that I am merely curious. When I think about it, they refuse to hear at all. When I think about it, I go to the boy with the laughing eyes. I have never seen him cry.
I watched as he grew from a young boy to an admittedly attractive adolescent. Sunlight by sunlight, I watch as he grows taller, fitter, stronger than the last. I will look at him, and I will see him become a man. I see him become a hero.
Sometimes, when I wake up to see him, he is dirty where he is most times clean. He is worn where he is most times well. He is impassive where he is most times joyous. And I am scared for him, where I am most times awed.
One day I see his lover exit out of his cabin. The blonde girl they call a genius. She is crying, I realize, when I hear her emit a sound I only ever hear from myself. She sobs, "I can't find him," and I am scared again. What happened to him? Has he disappeared once more? Perhaps he will return, as he always seem to do. I move to try and tell her this, but the centaur is there first. I do not hear what he says to her, but they walk away to presumably try and console each other. I feel my shoulders droop. Slowly, I fall asleep once more.
When I awake, he is back. But I only know this because I hear the other nymphs chatter. It is easy to hear because I am silent when they are not. That is usually all the time. He is back, they whisper yet it sounds like a scream. He is back, and they say it only once, but it echoes through the woods. He is back, they say, like they actually care.
I do not see him. I look, but I do not find. I listen, but I do not hear. It is dark. It is silence. I cannot find his laughing eyes. I cannot hear his happiness. All I see is a ghost. He is ever so quiet; his eyes ever so dull. I start to wonder of it is true. Is he really here? Perhaps the others have lied to me once more. I would not put it past them.
Eventually, I give up trying to find the boy with the laughing eyes. He is gone. I do not look for him anymore. I confess this quietly to myself as I go back to sleep, wishing for it to last an eternity when I used to wish for it to last until he is awake. How sorrowful is it that he did not last at all. I wish for him a happy ending.
I wish that I knew his name.