I’m not crying, you’re crying
“Christine,” the Phantom murmured, bringing his skeletal hand up and caressing the side of her face. “Do you truly love me?” “I love . . .” she began, but her voice faded away. “I loved you as my Angel. My guardian. The one who taught me to sing and gave me the confidence to use my talents in front of an audience. I even found I loved you as the mysterious Opera Ghost who soundlessly travelled the theatre, sometimes leaving destruction in your wake, because I knew those ‘accidents’ had a purpose. A purpose meant for me, that you would see your dream and mine come true, and that I would be a diva. “But Erik, you set up such an ethereal connection between us. You were a spirit. A disembodied voice in my dressing room mirror. A messenger from Heaven, sent by my father. Or so I believed. But you were so much more and, at the same time, so much less, than just a man. “I beg you to understand, Erik. You’re my Phantom, my Guardian Angel, and in some ways, my God. You were meant to watch over me, protect me, and you have done this. But we were never meant to be. I’m meant to be with Raoul, for even though he is a petulant child compared to you, I see him as a man.” “But do you love me?” Erik persisted. I knew what he hoped to hear, yet at the same time, I couldn’t help wondering why he chose to torture himself this way. Christine looked away and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. It was obvious she wanted to know the truth of her words before responding. When she opened her eyes, the expression they revealed told me she’d found her answer. She met Erik’s eyes and said, “I will never love anyone the way I loved, and love, you.”
~Rendezvous at the Populaire: A Novel of Sherlock Holmes by Kate Workman