I saw a concert version of Les Mis last night on TV. Many of my spare tween hours were spent listening to a tape of the show, to the point of knowing the entire thing by heart. Back then, Eponine was the one I loved and identified with. I sang her song “On My Own” a million times in my room and auditioned with it (twice, I think) for school plays. Even before seeing the actual show on Broadway, which I got to do in my early 20’s, Eponine’s pure unrequited love for the clueless dumbass Marius was something that was almost satisfying in its melancholy. Now that I think about it, the romanticizing of that pain may have shaped me in some fundamental way.