The Song of Achilles

by Madeline Miller

My eye catches on a light head among dozens of dark, tousled crowns.

“That is what a son should be.”

This always stuck out to me the daddy issues

“Patroclus.” Achilles did not slur my name, as people often did, running it together as if in a hurry to be rid of it. Instead, he rang each syllable: Pa-tro-clus.

“There is no one like you,” I said, at last.

“I’d like to be a hero, though.

Dear gods, I think, let him not hate me.

He pressed against me, crushing my lips to wine.

A surety rose in me, lodged in my throat. I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me.

“Patroclus,” he said. He was always better with words than I.

know. They never let you be famous and happy.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll tell you a secret.” “Tell me.” I loved it when he was like this. “I’m going to be the first.” He took my palm and held it to his. “Swear it.” “Why me?” “Because you’re the reason. Swear it.” “I swear it,” I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes. “I swear it,” he echoed.

and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake in this room loving him in silence.