𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ᵉ*ᵗᵐ

65 ┃ 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

━ ⭑─⭒━

━ ⭒─⭑━

You sat curled near the prow of the little boat, knees tucked close, chin resting on folded arms. The wood beneath you creaked and dipped with every subtle sway, the small hull cutting gently across the darkening water. Each rise and fall rocked through your bones like a lullaby you didn't want.

Above, the sky bled gold into a dusky orange, streaked with lines of muted pink that faded into purple at the edges. The sun was low now—almost gone—its dying glow turning the waves into molten bronze. You watched it flicker across the ripples, warm light dancing against cool sea, but it felt too beautiful to look at for long.

Peisistratus stood a few feet away, one hand firm around the rudder pole, guiding the boat with quiet, practiced ease. His other hand rested on his hip, thumb tapping softly against his belt as he squinted out toward the horizon. His curls were tied back at the nape of his neck to keep them from whipping across his eyes in the wind. He looked calm. Focused. Solid in a way that made you feel both steadied and small.

Neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the slap of water against the hull and the low hush of wind weaving between the ropes. The quiet felt heavy. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to disturb the dying day.

Eventually, your gaze shifted—slow, cautious. You glanced over your shoulder, back the way you came.

Fog clung to the sea behind you, thick and silver-white, curling low around the small island barely visible in the distance.

Home. 

Ithaca.

It was almost hidden now, shrouded in mist; only the faint outline of its cliffs and cypress trees cutting through the haze. It looked unreal from here. Like a memory you weren't sure was yours to keep.

You sighed, long and low, turning away. The sound left your lips like something pulled out from your chest.

You tried not to look at the horizon ahead. Tried not to think about what waited—or didn't wait—beyond it. But the thought pressed heavy against your ribs anyway, stubborn and insistent.

Telemachus.

His name felt raw inside you. It hurt to even think it, like running your tongue along a cut.

You wondered where he was now. If he was sleeping. If he was awake, staring out at the same sea, thinking of you the way you thought of him.

Or maybe he wasn't thinking of you at all. Maybe he'd finally let the tide pull you from his heart.

Your eyes burned at the thought. You blinked hard, swallowing against the tightness crawling up your throat.

The boat continued to rock gently beneath you. The wood was rough under your palms, splintering in places where salt and sun had eaten away the varnish. You curled your fingers against it, grounding yourself in the feel of it. Real. Solid. Something to hold onto when everything else felt like water slipping through your hands.