I have known for a long time that I am not a good person. This certainty dawned on me the moment I became complicit in the death of an innocent man. In truth, no one ever is truly good. Certainly, no one in the Greek group could lay claim to such a virtue.

Our lives were ruled by obsession, envy, manipulation, and desire.

From the moment I joined the group, I found myself irresistibly drawn to one individual. Every action they took, every word they spoke, stoked a fervent imagination within me. I envisioned what it might be like to be their partner, to touch them, to breathe in their scent. This fixation consumed me.

Then, one night, they kissed me. In that moment, I felt as if I were floating, detached from my own body.

But that first encounter was far from simple. It was a night steeped in caresses, whispers, and fervent passion. It transformed me irrevocably, for I had finally grasped what I most deeply desired. Even though I knew, deep down, that it was not an emotional bond, I did not care. I had been chosen by the one person everyone else coveted. I alone had touched them, been touched by them. These buried feelings for them had always lingered within me, dormant but potent.

It was only after the second encounter, as it came to a close, that I realized the depth of my feelings. When we found ourselves alone in the apartment that held all our secrets, I could no longer contain my thoughts.

Perhaps it was more than a mere physical relationship?

"I think I’m falling in love with you," I said, gazing at them over a glass of red wine, a copy of Homer’s works in hand, utterly indifferent to the gravity of my words.