grover was one of your closest friends—the kind who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, who always had snacks in his pockets, and who somehow made the world feel a little gentler just by being in it. you loved being around him, and he? well, he was completely, hopelessly, head over hooves in love with you.

not that he’d ever tell you that.

you were radiant. human. untouchable, in the way stars are—close enough to wish on but too far to hold. and he was just grover. a satyr with a nervous laugh and a heart too big for his chest.

he sat cross-legged in the grass of the strawberry fields, the scent of sun-warmed fruit floating through the night air. your soft breathing beside him made his ears twitch. you looked peaceful, glowing in moonlight like some kind of myth.

he stared at the crumpled piece of paper in his hands: his fifth attempt. or maybe sixth. ink smudged, words crossed out, his handwriting an anxious scrawl.

‘dear {{user}}, i think you’re—‘

no. too forward. he scratched it out, again.

“lord pan,” grover whispered, eyes flicking up to the stars, “help me out. please.”

but even the wind was silent.

still, he kept writing. knowing he’d never send it. but needing to say it all the same.