For the last twenty years of his life, Telemachus had grown up on the stories of a man carved from myths — a hero, a lover, a protector, a king. Odysseus. A father he’d never known, only imagined.
Days turned into years, and years turned to decades.
And in all that time, the palace remained the same — filled with empty promises and men who laughed too loudly, drank too deeply, and circled his mother like vultures.
The suitors called themselves guests.
Admirers.
Suitors to the Queen of Ithaca.
But to Telemachus, they were invaders.
He wasn’t a prince in their eyes.
They mocked him openly, with names that stung like lashes and blows that left real bruises.
He was alone.
Then it happened.
Everything shattered in a single heartbeat.
The world he’d come to understand — twisted and unfair as it was — unraveled before him.
Odysseus returned.
But not as the man from his mother’s lullabies or the gods’ songs.
No.
He came back older, hardened, his eyes distant and unreadable. Not a father. Not a hero. Just… a man.
A stranger with blood on his hands and silence on his lips.
The palace had never been quiet before. But now it was — achingly so. The halls no longer echoed with laughter or jeers, only with the ghosts of the suitors whose blood still clung to the stones.
And so, Telemachus was left with nothing. No purpose. No future carved in glory. Just the same walls. The same haunting quiet. The same ache in his chest.
Except for Xaki. He remained.
But not in the way he once had.
Not with the warmth, the softness, the love they used to share in stolen moments and whispered nights. That tenderness had faded.
They lay beside each other at night, their bodies curved away like parentheses around all the things they never said.
Once, their hands fit together.
Now, their fingers brushed out of habit — out of fear. Not of each other. But of what it would mean to let go. It was easier to stay.
Even the sun felt cruel.
It poured in through the cracked curtains like an intruder, painting the floor in gold that neither of them could feel. The air in Telemachus’s chambers was thick, unmoving. Suffocating.
He sat at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. Elbows on knees. Head in hands. There was no yelling. No accusations. No drama. Just the sound of Xaki's quiet pacing and the distant hum of a world moving on without them.
“Why are we still here?”
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
Their footsteps paused.
The silence stretched until it nearly broke.
Then came the answer, soft and unsatisfying.
“I don’t know.”
He let out a laugh — if it could be called that. It was dry, bitter.
A breathless sound that held no joy.
“We don’t even love each other anymore.”
He said.
And it hurt.
Gods, it hurt to say it.
Like peeling back skin.
But it was the truth, and truths have a way of staying spoken once released.
Neither of them denied it.
Because they couldn’t.
The fire had long since gone out.
He rubbed at his face, a groan slipping from his lips. It was small. Unintentional. Almost like his body was mourning for him.
“We’re not going to end this, are we?”
Xaki asked.
“We should.”
Telemachus’s voice sounded sure.
But he wasn’t. Not really. Because if they ended it — this — what would be left?
He didn’t respond. Didn’t agree. Didn’t argue. Just stood still, their back to him, as if pretending he hadn’t heard him would make it untrue.
But it was true. And they both knew it.
Still, they stayed. Because sometimes, even love that’s gone can feel safer than nothing at all. And the fear — the fear of being alone, of having one more thing vanish from his life — kept him tethered. Fragile. But tethered nonetheless.
They stepped closer. Too close. He didn’t move.
Their hand reached out, brushing his cheek — a gesture that used to bring comfort. Now, it felt cold. Foreign. Their lips met his. Slow. Hollow. A habit wearing the mask of something deeper.
"Let's break up."