I don't own anything, and in all honesty this piece is more for me and a bit of venting.

Dear Luke,

I can't write a fucking letter to save my life, but I have no other way to contact you. Not that this will, but it's nice to pretend. And maybe you do the same... write letters that no one will read. Maybe we could read each other's letters. Maybe I should stop.

But I won't.

Luke, you made everything so fucking hard. Not the hard where I know it's unrequited love or the hard where you made my life shit, but the hard where I just need to take something out of my life and I want it to be you but I just can't erase you. Because for the past few years-about two seconds after you turned evil, actually-I've been trying to forget you. That wouldn't work, partially because I don't think I'll ever really want to. Then I tried to accept it and just make you love me again. But then again, you're basically a vessel for the most evil entity in the cosmos, so there's that.

I can't even decide what to think of you anymore, Luke. Every once in a while, I'll think that I don't love you anymore. And I might be right. But then the space between my stomach and my heart compresses somehow into a tiny ball of pain that's just going to explode shrapnel and kill every organ inside me and that makes me wonder if I'm finally facing a horrible truth or if I'm just wrong, so flat out wrong, and that if I tell myself that lie then I'll be ruining what my life could be. And I'll never know. And of course, you know that's what's really killing me.

And I can't even fucking try to find out! Because I can't spend time with you and discover if I love you or the memory. Man, you becoming so damn evil fucked a lot of shit up, didn't it? Why didn't you think of that before you ran off to the dark side and got yourself evil demon girlfriends?

Why didn't you think of that when you saw me falling for Percy. You noticed that right before you left, I'm sure. Why couldn't you have at least tied some strings up, and made at least that part of my life a little bit easier.

Luke, I can't hate you. I don't think I ever really can. But you sure damn test my limits, and that's without even saying a word to me. Maybe that's why.

So I'm stuck here remembering, and you're stuck there plotting. And I wish I could really wish that it's painful. In the end I just want to make you better. Still. What the fuck, Luke. What the fuck did you do to me to make me into this. I'm almost happy for you Luke, because some nights I lie awake and convince myself that you're happy. And that alone is what makes me fight some days. I don't know why. Nothing about you and me is logical, now is it?

Lovingly, hatefully, distrustfully, painfully, confusedly, and frustratingly yours,

Annabeth Chase.