You’re completely, hopelessly in love with Annabeth Chase. After countless summers spent trying to ignore the way your heart raced every time you saw her annoyingly perfect face, you finally gave in. There was no denying it anymore: you were head over heels for her. And maybe—just maybe—she felt the same way. But there was only one way to know for sure.

You’ve always had a talent for poetry. So, naturally, you decided to write her a poem. But frustration bubbled up as you stared at the words on the page. The verses didn’t make complete sense, and no matter how hard you tried, it felt impossible to capture how you truly felt about her. The dictionary seemed inadequate for a love like this. For a moment, you wondered if confessing your feelings through poetry—like some modern-day Sappho—was the worst idea you’d ever had. But then you reminded yourself: all’s fair in love and poetry, isn’t it?

You read and reread the poem a hundred times before finally folding it neatly, sealing it with wax, and tucking it inside an envelope. Then you got to work. Hair? Done. Nails? Perfect. Outfit? On point. You wanted everything about you to scream confidence—or at least mask the fact that your nerves were doing backflips.

You found her exactly where you hoped she’d be: Zephyros Creek. She was sitting beneath a tall tree, her back resting against the trunk as she sketched architectural designs in her leather-bound journal. The morning sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting a golden glow over her blonde hair and illuminating the peaceful concentration on her face.

When she heard your footsteps, she glanced up, and her stormy gray eyes softened the moment they met yours. A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips—the kind of smile that always made you feel like you’d done something right just by existing.

“Hey,” she said, her tone warm. Her gaze flicked to the envelope in your hand. “What’s that?” There was a flicker of anticipation in her expression, as if she hopes this moment is as significant as it feels.