I was born with the taste of storms
on my tongue.
Not lightning—
that belongs to the sky—
but the quiet pull of tides,
the way the ocean never asks permission
to take something back.
They told me I was broken first.
Dyslexic.
Trouble.
A kid who couldn't sit still
because the world kept shaking
offerings at my feet—
monsters in alleyways,
prophecies whispered like threats,
a destiny that sounded a lot like a death sentence.
But the sea knew my name
before I did.
It hummed it through conch shells
and subway tunnels flooded with fear.
It waited patiently
while I learned that survival
sometimes looks like laughing
while everything burns behind you.
I learned early
that heroes are supposed to be clean.
Golden.
Carved into marble with their best angles forward.
But no one tells you
how heavy a sword feels
when you don't want to lift it.
No one warns you
that saving the world
means deciding which parts of yourself
you're willing to drown.
I don't drown.
That's the first trick they notice.
The way water opens its arms for me
like I'm coming home.
Like it recognizes my pulse
beating in the same rhythm as waves
crashing against the bones of the earth.
Saltwater in my veins—
not blood, not exactly—
but something older.
Something that remembers
when gods were louder
and mortals were braver
because they didn't know
how stories ended yet.
I fight because I love.
That's the part they never write down.
I fight because a girl with grey eyes
believes the world can be rebuilt
if you think hard enough.
Because a satyr once believed in me
before I believed in myself.
Because a ghost king taught me
that loneliness can be survived.
Because even the worst betrayals
started as prayers.
The sea is angry, sometimes.
So am I.
But anger doesn't mean cruel—
it means you care deeply enough
to refuse silence.
I've held the weight of oceans
and the weight of choices
and learned the second one
is heavier every time.
They call me a hero.
I call myself a boy
who would rather be anywhere else
than standing between the world
and its ending—
but will stand there anyway,
soggy sneakers, cracked ribs,
jokes ready on my tongue
like armor.
Because saltwater doesn't forget
where it comes from.
It always finds its way back
to the sea.
And me?
I'll keep going.
Through wars, through gods,
through prophecies that try to write me
into a corner.
I am not unbreakable.
I am not fearless.
But I am carried
by every wave that ever learned
how to rise again.
Saltwater in my veins.
The sea at my back.
And the world—
still standing.
A/N:Based off Percy Jackson
