This is a trick. It must be. I can't hear her. Can't hear her footsteps. Can't feel her breath. Can't feel her hand in mine. Is she there? Am I walking the path alone? Am I a fool who'd leave her here, are the walls laughing at me marching home while she is trapped below? I'm being lied to, aren't I? I have to check. I have to know. I have to know.
Are you with me, Eurydice?
Is she there? I think I hear her footsteps. Or maybe it's the wind that's playing tricks on me. Would she follow? Does she even trust me to lead? Do I deserve her trust? Does she even want to follow, or am I disturbing her final rest? I haven't even asked her what she wants. Why would she want this? Want me?
Do you want this, Eurydice?
I can hear her behind me. Her footsteps. Her shallow breath. She's here. She's here. It's dark. Can she see clearly? Does the light from my torch light her path, or am selfishly keeping it all for myself? The path is rocky. Uneven. I almost stumble twice, it must be even harder for her. Her breath catches and I hear her fall β
Are you alright, Eurydice?
I can hear her voice. She speaks to me as I walk. Quietly, softly. I say a joke. It's not funny, but she chuckles. The road is long and dark, but we're together. I can't hold her, but we're together. She's two steps back, always two steps back, but I can hear her, and I'll hold her soon, the moment both of us are in the sun. The sun! I take a step. The sun. It's here. We're here! I cannot wait to hold her.
...I am a fool, Eurydice.
How long it's been? She calls my name. Her hand is on my shoulder. I don't look back. I can't look back. She says my name, and her voice is clear. I don't look back. I can't look back. Let me go, she says. She takes my face in her hands and gently turns my head. Please, let me go, she says.
I walk forward. I just have to keep walking forward. I just have to not turn around.
This time for sure. This time I won't look back. This time I'll make it through.
I make my footsteps heard.
I breathe, the stale air in my lungs.
I say his name, my voice a whisper. I don't stumble.
You're not a fool. There's nothing to forgive.
I talk to him, my tears stuck in my throat. I try to reach him.
I walk. I whisper. I speak. I don't stumble.
I see his face in morning rays of sun.
His hair looks beautiful in golden light of morning. If that's the last I see of him, I'll count it as a blessing.
And then I'm gone. I'm always gone.
To be Eurydice is to be gone, really.
And then he tries. He always tries.
I thought, at first, that to be Orpheus was to try.
But to be Orpheus is to look back.
