A/N: Hey guys! Back with another one that's a bit longer. Hope you like it!

It's easy to write your own story.

The details are vivid in your mind, the emotions vibrant in your heart, the plot unfolding easily.

Percy knows this. His own story isn't what makes him a writer. But it's a story worth telling.

Or maybe the kind old waitress at the diner doesn't want to hear it but the words spill out without any forethought or restraint.

"See to be a writer just means to be observant of the world. Everyone thinks that writers only write from experience. You'd get one book out of that, maybe two. No, writers write from empathy, from things beyond just themselves."

He swears he's not drunk, just unable to stop his mouth from talking. Thankfully, the waitress just stands there, allowing him to continue. Maybe she can tell it's a story that he has to tell.

"And I'm a writer, so I spend my days following the words and stories and worlds of other people. But then," he pauses for the first time.

This is the part of the story that's hard to tell. He looks up at waitress wordlessly and she simply cocks an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Then…" he pushes on, "I fell in love with a woman across the ocean with a pretty eyes and a story so vast that my words would never be able to do it justice. I realized then that I had to follow her."

He slumps down on the table, falling silent as he rests his head in his hands.

"And did you?" the waitress asks, breaking the short silence while finally pouring him the cup of coffee he had initially requested.

Tilting his head up at her, he doesn't respond. She frowns and sets down the coffee pot.

"No."

Though she doesn't speak loudly it rings out against the otherwise still diner.

"What?"

He pulls himself up just to get better access to the coffee. The sip burns his tongue and he doesn't taste as much as feel the liquid in his mouth.

"You can't keep me here to tell this long ass story and have it end like that." Her arms are crossed and her nametag rides up enough for him to read it. Melinda.

He shrugs, taking another sip of the burning coffee, finding a grim satisfaction in the pain.

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

She throws her hands up. "You're a writer aren't you? At least you claim to be. Write a better ending."

He blinks tiredly thinking about the last conversation he'd had with her. Specifically, how it had ended. He shakes his head.

"This is a true story, not a fictional one." He tells the waitress, running a hand through his hair.

"So?"

"So I can't—" he cuts off at the look she gives him. Eyebrow still raised, arms still crossed, reminding him of an old elementary school teacher who gave him the same look when he hadn't finished his homework.

So…so what? What does he do now?

He looks back up at the waitress who is still giving him the look, now holding out her hands as if to say what are you still doing here.

He gives her a ten dollar tip and walks out.

So…

So, he writes a better ending.

-.-

It's raining. Turns out that stereotype is pretty true of London (he makes a note of it, if he ever decides to write about London).

Despite running from the cab to the door, he's still half drenched by the water. And he'd probably be feeling cold if his heart wasn't pounding so much. What is he even doing here?

He thinks about Melinda.

He rings the doorbell.

Her hair is in a bun, and she's got a cardigan wrapped around her body and those grey eyes (that a screen just doesn't do justice) are wide open.

"Are you insane?" she says, eyes raking over his pathetic half-soaked form. He's shaking and he can't tell if it's the cold or seeing her in front of him.

She ushers him inside, and warmth floods his body as he looks around the living room he's seen so much of through a screen. It's so much more vibrant in real life.

She's much more vibrant.

Annabeth hands him a towel and he attempts to pat himself dry as the words once again spill out of his chattering teeth.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry about everything. I want you, for worse or for better and I'm willing to wait for as long as it takes. I'll wait forever and ever and eve—"

"Drink this," she interrupts, handing him a steaming cup of coffee. "You're going to die of hypothermia."

He won't but he takes the coffee nonetheless, the hot liquid burning his mouth.

Here he is again.

Eyes roaming the kitchen he sees a picture. Of him. In a small frame, held up by a magnet on the fridge. His eyes snap back to hers and she looks down, clearly noticing what he had seen.

"It used to be so good. And I know I messed it up, and if I could take it all back I would. I must have lost my mind and you have no idea how bad I feel about it all."

She looks at him, for the first time since he's walked in, she actually, fully, properly, looks at him.

"I can't let this story end like this," the flow of his words start to falter. "I don't want it too."

"Please." The last words come out as a whisper and she meets his eyes, and he hopes to every deity that she sees the truth in them.

She takes a step closer to him, grey eyes still fixed on his.

"Okay."

Forgiveness.

Can you imagine?

-.-

The bell dings loudly as he walks into the diner. It's been a few months and he has no idea if—

Never mind, sometimes, somedays, some miracles happen.

He walks right up to Melinda who's standing by the counter and clears his throat to get her attention. He has no clue if she remembers him, or even cares. But as every writer knows.

It's easier to tell your own story.

So, the words tumble from his lips.

"I'm a writer and I spent my days following the words, and stories and worlds of other people. Then one day I met this girl with pretty eyes and a story so vast I knew I couldn't capture it with words. I realized then that I had to follow her," he pauses.

Melinda cocks an eyebrow, a hint of a smile on her face.

He holds up their intertwined hands, glancing over at Annabeth with a smile.

"So I did."

A/N: So what did you think? I'll leave it up to you to come up with what the fight was about or any of those details, for the purposes of this, they aren't important. The main point is the act of taking action and trying your hardest to change your story for the better. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't but the point is to try and that's what I was trying to get across in this one.

I like writing this drabble series specifically because I can focus on the details I want without having to tell the whole story, even with just this much, I'm sure most of you have already come up with some idea of what happened.

I hope you guys liked this! Please Review! I'd love to hear your thoughts!

And as always, thanks for reading!

See ya! :)