Admittedly, Meg was no great hero. Very few would probably want to hear a song about her.
Maybe that was what drew Calliope to her. In all her years of existence, she had seen great heroes and deities, monsters like no other.
Meg was just, well, Meg. She was snarky and her jokes always made Calliope laugh (though Meg never heard her). She stood up tall and straight, always looking men in the eyes.
Unlike the women that Calliope sang about, the women that she herself just could not relate to, Meg spoke her mind. She didn't need a hero to complete her.
She was normal but extraordinary, and she probably did not even know about it.
Calliope watched, sometimes from far above and other times from a pot or painting. She blended in, never catching Meg's eyes.
The other muses suspected something of her, though they had (thankfully) yet to figure out what.
Songs came to her mind, though they were nothing that she would proudly proclaim. Few would probably want to hear them, and few should. Those songs were personal, the kind that Calliope sat up all night thinking about, the kind that went on for hours and could fill entire pages if written down, even if they were only for her alone to hear.