I don't own the rights to Phantom of the Opera. I wish I did, but I don't.
Sorrow That Kills
The Phantom knew his eyes were wider than they should be, but he couldn't remedy the situation. If he didn't hold them open and resist the urge to blink, the first closing of his eyelids would spill the tears he was trying so desperately to keep at bay. The tears that were drowning his heart. The tears that were filling his lungs, pressing down on his chest so he couldn't breathe, and he wouldn't dare gasp for life until she left. She had hurt him more than she would ever know. He couldn't let her see it, hear it.
Just look what had happened the last time he opened up to her and left himself vulnerable. He would not let her betray him again.
As she turned her back, the saltwater in his chest turned to molten lead, burning and weighing him down. His eyes were suddenly so dry they scratched as his eyelids fell closed. Under the rustling movements of her skirt, Christine didn't hear him collapse to the floor, not to rise again.