You had left after an argument, it broke him.
It was dusk now. The kind that made the sky bleed out in bruises—orange melting into purple, the sea hissing softly beneath the cliffs. The palace bustled with nervous energy. A banquet had been called—another evening to appease the wolves in noble clothing, the suitors that gnawed at Penelope’s patience and at Telemachus’s pride. But that wasn’t what set his pulse into a rhythm too fast to ignore.
They were here.
He hadn’t seen them yet, not really. Just whispers. A flash of familiar clothing slipping through the crowd, a glimpse of their profile in a torchlit corridor. But even that was enough to unravel whatever fragile thread he’d stitched over his heart since they’d gone. He didn’t know why they’d returned. If it was for him or for some other reason entirely. He couldn’t bring himself to ask.
Instead, Telemachus stood alone on the palace’s back terrace, overlooking the sea. The cool stone railing pressed into his palms, grounding him. The last rays of light caught the salt on his skin, and for a moment, he let the silence speak.
He thought about that night—months ago, years now? Time moved strangely in absence—when they’d left, shouting half-truths and wounded accusations neither of them had the strength to admit were rooted in love. Or something close.
He’d said he didn’t need them.
That he had bigger things to worry about—his mother, the kingdom, the question of his father’s death or life. But he’d wanted them to stay.
He’d wanted someone to see how scared he was.
“Sue me.”
He muttered under his breath, the words not his but borrowed from a drunken memory of words they used to say—half-laughed, half-cried in his bed.
“I wanna be wanted.”
The breeze answered him with silence.
He felt them before he saw them. A presence. That same electricity—familiar, unwanted, and utterly addictive. Telemachus didn’t turn around right away. He didn’t trust himself not to say something stupid. Not to reach for them like nothing had changed. Like everything hadn’t.
He exhaled, slow. Steady. Tried to collect himself, to remember what they were to each other now—former lovers? Friends? Ghosts walking in overlapping paths?
When he finally turned, they were there, leaning casually against the pillar just beyond the terrace archway, lit by the low flame of a nearby brazier. Same eyes, same gravity. A little older. A little more armored in the way they held themselves. But the storm was still there.
Telemachus swallowed. His voice didn’t quite rise above the wind.
“You came back.”
It wasn’t a question. Just a truth. A fragile olive branch made of breath and regret.
He didn’t say I missed you. Didn’t say I never stopped thinking about you. Didn’t say that every night he fell into sleep half-hoping they’d crawl through his window again and press their forehead to his chest like they used to.
Instead, he watched them, waiting. Not for forgiveness, not even for answers.
Just for a flicker of recognition.
Because gods help him, he was still theirs. Even if the only thing they shared now was silence and the memory of how it felt to be wanted.
Even if fucking your ex was, as they used to say, iconic.
Let them make the next move. He wasn’t ready to leave this edge.
But he was ready to fall.