CHAPTER 64: DEAR DIARY

Hermes never meant to read it.

But the moment Aphrodite left the notebook unattended, still open, still drying from the last curl of ink—he couldn’t stop himself.

He sat on the couch, blanket around his shoulders like armor, Xolotl pressed into his side. The puppies were too busy chasing after a sock to care. And the apartment had fallen into that eerie kind of silence, the kind that made every small decision feel bigger than it was.

His fingers hovered over the page. Just one line, he told himself.

But once his eyes began moving... he didn’t stop.

[The storm has passed, but the sky in this apartment has remained overcast. Hermes hasn’t spoken more than five sentences in three days. He’s become like a painting left in the rain—blurred at the edges, colors all leaking into gray.]

That was Aphrodite’s writing.

Not the Aphrodite who stared blankly at his tea and avoided eye contact in every room. Not the quiet boy who hummed under his breath when he cooked or mumbled "It’s fine" whenever Hermes apologized for being a useless housemate.

This version of Aphrodite wrote in long, spiraling prose. Sentences that read like riddles, dipped in metaphors. His vocabulary unfolded like ribbons—overly ornate, almost ridiculous.

But buried beneath the pretentious wording was real concern. So much of it that Hermes felt his chest tighten with guilt.

[He moves like the strings holding him up have frayed. I fear his flame is flickering under the weight of memory. And I hate him for not letting me take some of it from him. I hate him for trying to carry it alone.]

Hermes pressed his hand to his forehead.

He had no idea.

He knew Aphrodite was staying because of their friendship—but he didn’t realize how deeply the boy had been watching him. How much he had recorded in poetic detail—the way Hermes didn’t eat, didn’t move, didn’t react even when the smallest of the Grrberus pups accidentally set fire to the rug.

The diary didn’t stop at that.

[I will never forgive Eirwyn Curacio. Never. Even if the world tries to forget what he did, I will keep remembering it for Hermes. I will remember how small his shoulders looked that day. How his voice cracked when he said he was ’fine.’ How his eyes begged for someone to erase him.]

Hermes closed the diary briefly, forehead pressed to the back of his hand.

He hadn’t cried in weeks. Not really. But now his eyes stung.

Aphrodite had been writing this almost every day. Recording his observations, thoughts, worries—some written like poetry, others more like confessions. Some passages were disjointed, nervous. Others far too eloquent for someone who rarely spoke aloud.

And then came a shift.

The entries grew... vaguer. Still flowery, but hesitant. There were long paragraphs where Aphrodite mused on what it meant to tell someone the truth. Not just a truth. But the truth.

Hermes turned another page.

And there it was.

Something different in tone. Aphrodite’s usual metaphorical flair was turned inward, tangled, as if even his poetic words were unsure of themselves.

[I don’t know if it’s the right time. I don’t know if there will ever be a right time. He’s so fragile lately. Like thin ice above a lake—beautiful, but one wrong word and I’ll be the one to shatter him.]

Hermes blinked.

[He’s been through enough. I shouldn’t add anything more. But sometimes, when he laughs at one of Somner’s stupid jokes... when he falls asleep with his mouth slightly open... when he forgets how to hold his tea properly and burns his tongue, I almost said it. I almost told him.]

Hermes’ heart beat louder in his ears.

[Would it be selfish? To give him something more to carry? Even if it’s just... a feeling I’ve had for a long time. Since before the war. Since before we had to grow up.]

A beat passed.

Hermes’ breath caught.

[I wonder... Would he look at me differently if he knew? Would he hate me? Or worse—would he feel like I betrayed him by hiding this for so long?]

He didn’t even realize how tightly he was holding the diary until he heard the bark.

"Xolotl!"

The thundering sound of paws and claws against the hardwood floor made him jump. Aphrodite’s voice echoed from the hallway.

Hermes quickly shut the notebook and tossed it back on the cushion. His face burned, ears pink, heart racing. He leaned back, attempting to look natural just as Aphrodite came in, leash in one hand, a half-pulled dog in the other.

"Are you ok?" Aphrodite asked, watching him squirm awkwardly on the couch.

"Y-Yeah. Just... thinking."

"About what?"

"About bark." Hermes blurted. "Tree bark. You know. Nature. Documentaries."

Aphrodite blinked at him. "You hate documentaries."

Hermes coughed. "People can change."

Aphrodite let it go, thankfully, wrangling the dogs toward the kitchen and muttering something about how one of the Grrberus pups somehow got peanut butter on his tail again.

But Hermes’ thoughts were spinning.

He reread the words in his head again and again, and each time they sounded more like a confession. A love letter trapped in the margins of doubt. Aphrodite was trying to say something.

Maybe he hadn’t found the courage yet—but it was there.

And for the first time in weeks...

Hermes smiled.

***

The rest of the evening passed with the same quiet rhythm that their days had recently followed. Aphrodite cooked. Hermes cleaned a little. The dogs bickered over whose bed was whose.

But something had changed.

Not between them, exactly. But in Hermes.

For the first time in weeks, he realized he was still capable of feeling surprise. Of embarrassment. Of something other than numbness.

And that—somehow—was comforting.

So while Aphrodite served him roasted chicken with miso glaze, and while they ate in near silence with only the sound of chewing and clinking utensils...

Hermes looked up, cleared his throat, and said:

"Do you want to go on a date?"

Aphrodite blinked. "What?"

"I mean..." Hermes scratched his neck. "Like. A casual one. Just to get out. I need to... stop rotting. You know? And I think you deserve more than just cleaning up after me every day."

Aphrodite didn’t respond.

He was frozen.

Then—

Clink.

He dropped his glass.

Hermes instinctively reached forward. "Shit—careful."

He went to try and pick the broken pieces up. But the moment his fingertips touched the shattered rim—

Whirrrr—click!

A golden clock flashed behind his eyes. The glass hovered for a second... then rewound.

It repaired itself. Seamless. Whole.

Hermes stared at it in horror.

"What...?"

Aphrodite slowly lowered his fork. "Did you just...?"

Hermes’ breath hitched. "Why do I still have that bastard’s power?"

He stood up so fast the chair toppled.

"It’s been two months!" he yelled, pacing, running both hands through his hair. "I haven’t kissed him again, I haven’t used Rewind, I haven’t even thought about using it! So why—how—is it still here?!"

Aphrodite looked equally stunned.

Hermes’ hands were trembling.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The phantom of that golden clock still hovered like a sunspot behind his vision.