Grover is pacing so hard the floorboards almost creak in rhythm. His ears twitch. His hooves scrape. His breathing is ragged. He won’t look at you.

“Grover,” you say gently.

“Nope,” he says quickly. “No, no, not doing this conversation. Not today.”

“We have to.”

“We don’t! Actually we don’t! Talking will make it worse!”

“Why do you think that?”

He throws his arms up. “Because everything I say upsets you!”

“That’s not true!”

“It is!” he yells — which is rare, too rare, and it cracks something in you. “I’m not good at this! I’m not good at… at relationships or arguments or not disappointing people!”

“You didn’t disappoint me—”

“Yes I did!” His voice shatters. “You asked me to be there and I wasn’t. I got scared. I froze. I always freeze.”

You step closer. He steps back. “Grover—”

“No! Don’t come over here looking all kind or whatever — I can’t do that right now. I can’t take you being gentle when I’m the one who screwed up.”

“Then be angry!” you snap. “Be frustrated! Be anything except silent!”

He stops. Breathes hard. His eyes are glossy. “You don’t get it,” he whispers. “When I mess up, all I hear is Pan’s voice in the back of my head saying ‘you’re supposed to do better.’ And I can’t—I can’t do better. I can barely do this.”