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Eurydice had never been in love. She never had the time, too busy fighting to stay ahead of the wind, in a race with nature that would be dangerous to lag behind in, but which could never be won. She never had the room in her heart, too hardened by the people who’d tried to touch it, to own it. She’d travelled, migrating like a bird forced to fledge the nest too early, desperate to escape the cold, longing to stop and rest but unable to afford the luxury. Love had been off the cards for as long as she could remember, which made it all the more shocking when it made such a sudden appearance in what had always a solitary life (it was cheaper that way, easier not to have another hungry mouth to feed, a leech on her side devouring half of the valuable food she scavenged and stole).
It was against her better judgement that she fell in love with Orpheus. And to make matters worse, she fell hard. She had kept her heart so tightly locked away that it may as well have been imprisoned on the top of a mountain, which made its descent into Orpheus’ arms (which were so much gentler than any she had ever known, a bed of feathers for her to lay down in, which made her reconsider everything ) all the more frightening. Eurydice was alarmed by the change he sparked in her, a girl who had believed everyone was out to get her, who had learnt to keep people at a distance so that they wouldn’t expect anything from her in return. She fell in love with his selflessness, always bringing her fire, always putting aside a ration of food, always saving her a space in his bed (or, on the first night, he had sacrificed his own comfort and slept on the floor, knowing she didn’t yet trust him enough to share a bed).
She fell in love with the notion of home, of the family that came along with it. Orpheus didn’t have much, but he was surrounded by the love of Hermes, who acted aloof at times but deeply loved the boy he had practically raised. And in the warmer months, he had the love of Persephone, who treated him with motherly compassion even after a few too many wines, who praised him and pampered him and filled in the gap, just as Hermes did. Orpheus may never have said it aloud, but Eurydice knew that Hermes’ paternal streak extended to her too, that he looked at her as affectionately as he did Orpheus, that she would always have a place in his bar and his guidance to turn to if she needed it. She loved all that Orpheus brought into her life, the hope and the optimism of a boy who had every reason to be as cynical as her, but who managed to stay positive, to see the good in people who Eurydice would instinctively brand as villains, to maintain hope for a future where starving girls didn’t have to fear freezing to death in the streets.
The list was endless, a manuscript snaking around every square inch of her mind, crammed full of reasons to love Orpheus. She would say that what had first caught her eye was the awkwardness of his smile, the nervous intensity of his gaze, the endearing conviction that she would come home with him. On their first meeting, it was the fire that hadn't yet died in his soul, the light in his eye that showed he still believed in the goodness of a world she'd given up on, that had drawn Eurydice to him. It was the innocence, something that had ripped from her chest long ago, if in fact she had even been born possessing it. It was the way he looked back to Hermes to spur him on, as a boy does to his father, as if nervous he was making the wrong decision, the way he had sounded so sincere when he complimented her, the way he had embodied all the joy and optimism she envied.
It was the simplest gesture. That was all it took for her to fall in love. A lifetime of building up her walls, only to come undone so quickly. So effortlessly, by a naive boy who didn’t even know he held the key to unlock Eurydice’s heart. A childish wave, a wonky smile that seemed too big for his face, the immediate impression that earnest Orpheus was hiding nothing, that he didn't know any other way than to be his honest self, grinning and holding those stupid paper flowers. There was no pretending, no scheming, nothing similar to what she'd seen in the men who tried to seem kind, only to lull her to their houses. He flirted like it was something he’d rehearsed in front of a mirror but never experienced properly, haphazardly, like the words didn’t belong in his mouth. But the messiness only added to the charm. It was one moment in time, one strange, sweet boy who may as well have walked around announcing his every feeling, and it changed her life.
And she would fall in love with him time and time again. She loved the energy he renewed within her, the way he provided her a reason to continue when everything had once felt so bleak. She loved his voice, the magical songs he could create, the gift he had been given (though, she didn’t love the burden it left him with, the trance he would fall into when he became consumed by the song, the way he became dead to the world and hunched over the desk). She loved his idiosyncrasies, the little quirks and mannerisms she paid attention to, like the way his fingers would constantly tap along to a silent beat, the way even his speech seemed musical, like he was singing. She loved his passion, the way his face would light up whenever someone mentioned music, loved his bashfulness, the way he would blush and turn away if too much attention was focused on him. She loved his determination, the drive to change the world that she never would’ve expected from someone so small and timid.
She fell in love with Orpheus, who was another broken part, who combined with her to make a whole. He cared for her, understood her past, knew when to tread gently, never questioned it if she flinched at loud noises or if she refused to go outside when the snow fell. But it was mutual, this acknowledgement that neither of them were perfect, that they were both a little fucked up in some way and that they were each other’s remedy. She fell in love with his imperfections, just as he did hers. She went slowly, recognising that he had never been hugged as a child, picking up on his yearning for physical contact even when the thought of being touched repulsed her. She learned that sometimes he needed reminding to take care of himself, that he would get caught up writing a song and forget to eat. And Eurydice fell in love with him so wholeheartedly that none of this bothered her. She didn’t mind that Orpheus was a little different, because she was different too, and it didn’t matter that he had scars because she had ones to match.
She fell in love with him. As a whole. In his entirety. Not just the idealised parts, not just the happy boy she’d met, not just the romanticised version. She loved all of him, even when he struggled to make eye contact, even when he stumbled trying to find the right words, because he had made her feel complete for the first time. He had made the shadows shrink away, the cry of carrion birds overhead fade, the ticking of the clock come to a halt, turned her into someone who sunk into embraces and melted at the melodic sound of her name on his lips. She loved the way he sheltered her from the storm she’d grown up trapped in, the roof he put over her head and the sense of belonging she felt beneath it. She loved the person she became, thanks to Orpheus.
And the list of reasons only expanded as they spent more time together, until it spilled over the imaginary page and became a gushing poem worthy of even Orpheus’ masterful hand. He introduced light into her life, brought the warmth of the sun into the miserable grey expanse of the winter she’d trudged through in the years before she’d met him. He taught her to believe in herself, in her own power, that every person was capable of changing the world if they didn’t agree with it. And the world was so flawed, so ugly, as the autumns never came and the winters stretched on, that Eurydice got carried away in Orpheus’ artistic revolution, in the mystical strength of his song, which would (she was certain ) fix everything.
And even if, by some disastrous miracle, Orpheus was to fail, if his song couldn’t bring the world back into tune, it had at least saved her. She had been a wandering bird, doomed to have her wings snapped by a wind too vicious to fly against, but Orpheus had given her somewhere to roost, a permanent home she didn’t have to run from. Thanks to that boy and his song, Eurydice would always feel safe. She knew that wherever she was, she was loved, that if she ever trailed too far behind, Orpheus would look over his shoulder, turn his head to check she was still with him, to reassure her and remind her of all the reasons she loved him. She could rely on someone, and while it was still foreign to her, she would get used to it: the notion of being adored.