The air was thick with salt, the wind restless as it danced across the jagged rocks. Odysseus sat near the water’s edge, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the horizon. His hair clung damply to his face, tousled by the breeze. He’d been out here for hours — long enough for the sun to begin sinking, casting the sky in streaks of amber and gold.

You found him like this often, perched on the rocks with that same hollow stare — like if he looked hard enough, the waves might just carry him home.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” you called out softly.

He didn’t turn. “I don’t care.” His voice was rough, worn thin by too many nights spent choking back tears.

“You should,” you said, stepping closer. “You still have something to fight for.”

He let out a bitter breath — not quite a laugh, but something close. “Fight? I’ve been fighting since the day I washed up here. And where did that get me?”

You swallowed the ache in your throat. Circe’s grip on him had worn him down, body and soul. Those angry red marks across his arms hadn’t fully faded, and the way his voice broke… it was like the words themselves hurt to say.

“I know you feel like there’s no way out,” you said quietly. “But there is. You can’t give up now.”

“I already have,” he muttered, voice barely above the whisper of the tide.

“You haven’t.”

He turned then, finally looking at you. His eyes — once sharp and sure — were clouded now, weary and lost. But beneath the exhaustion, there was still something there. Something stubborn.

You hesitated before stepping closer, unsure how much to push, but there was something in the way he was still holding on to the rocks that told you he wasn’t entirely lost.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” you said softly.

For a moment, he said nothing. The wind howled between you. Then, at last, his gaze shifted back to the sea.

“I’ve been alone for so long,” he said, his voice distant.

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched, but you stayed close. Maybe, for the first time, that was enough