In his head, Telemachus had imagined something far more dignified—something cool and composed, perhaps even poetic. He’d open his mouth, say something clever, and you would look at him with that knowing glint in your eyes, the one that always made his heart trip over itself.
Instead, he had blurted, “Gods, I love you.”
Just like that. No warning. No build-up. No chance for him to stop himself before his own words could ruin him.
The words echo off the stone walls of the palace corridor. He has exactly one second to process his mistake before panic seizes him.
“I mean—” His voice cracks, because of course it does. “I mean—not like that! Well—okay, no, I do mean it like that, but not like—” He gestures wildly, nearly knocking over a nearby oil lamp. The flame flickers, and for a moment, he considers throwing himself into it. It would be a far kinder fate than this.
Telemachus lets out a strangled noise, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, and flops against the nearest column like a man defeated. He stares at the ceiling, willing it to collapse and spare him from further humiliation.
“I’m never speaking again,” he declares solemnly. “That’s it. I’m done. Tell my father—if he ever arrives—I loved him.”
