It was quiet. She didn't always understand why sometimes, even when they had both agreed on a lesson time, he wouldn't show up. The lights were low, as he had expected, and she had closed all the doors and curtains, making sure to lock the door from the hallway into her room. She sat down in the chair that faced the mirror, weary from her earlier performance. Perhaps he was jealous and angry that she decided to go with "the fop", as he had so confidently named him. Sighing deeply, she lifted her leg onto her knee and began unfastening the buckles on her shoes, pulling them off and tossing them aside. She looked expectantly at the mirror. The last time she had seen him was when she had returned his ring and then got into the boat and left the cellar. Left him alone to weep and drown in his sorrows. In truth, she did, at the most random times, feel a shot of grief jolt through her, and would try to block him out of her mind as well as she could. But now, as she reluctantly pulled her gaze away from the mirror and began undressing, the guilt left her and replaced itself with worry and fear. Had he committed suicide? Did he not see a point in living if it meant living without her? When she had removed her dress and now wore her bedclothes, she stepped slowly towards the mirror and placed a hand against it, seeing only her own worried expression staring back at her.
"Phantom..?" she whispered, but realized it useless to whisper when trying to find someone, especially somebody as furtive as the Opera Ghost. "Phantom?" Her voice had risen in volume. She jumped back when she felt the mirror shake, but realized it was from her own voice and tone. Stepping back a bit and looking up to the ceiling, she wrung her hands out nervously. "Phantom, where are you? I thought you were going to continue teaching me, no matter the circumstances." She looked around, hoping to spot him or his trademark red rose. But seeing nothing of the sort, she sat back down and shook her head solemnly. He wouldn't just leave her like this, and she knew it. "Look, I know you're there. In fact, I could prove it. I could find you. However, I wouldn't know where to start and, taking into account that we didn't leave on level ground last encounter, I wouldn't feel safe walking around through a dark cellar alone." There was no reply, save for a soft echo of her own voice. Slouching a bit, she rubbed her eyes sleepily. "I don't know what to tell you. You live here, after all. I don't feel like there's much to say between us… I would love to hear from you, though." She looked confidently at the mirror, as if expecting him to show up at any moment. "Why haven't you shown up, Phantom?" There was, as she expected, no answer. She stood up and began to pace the room anxiously. Every now and again, she would look at the mirror, but would only see herself staring back, along with the empty background of new and forgotten flowers against the same, old wallpaper. She turned to look at them, reaching for a bouquet of wilted flowers from a vase.
"Don't take them," came his voice, rich with anger and mistrust. She wheeled around, but saw nothing.
"Who is there?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. He did not reply. She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Is this it then? You're just going to run my life but not teach me anything?"
"What is there left to teach?" he asked in a despondent voice, shaky and quiet. Slowly, she dropped her arms, looking around with wide eyes and mouth open. She was unsure of how to respond. It was true that, thanks to him, she was the talk of the Opera house and a good bit of Paris. She had never properly thanked him. She didn't have much to develop in, as she already sang like the highest of angels. Feeling wretched and disgraceful, she sat down and stared at the floor, at her pale hands. She noticed she was shaking.
"I-I'm sorry," she whispered. She didn't feel like there was anything else to say. She simply wanted to be in his presence and let him know that she was still paying attention to him. She felt a sob rise up in her throat as she lifted her eyes to the mirror; he was not there. "Why won't you show yourself?" she asked, squeaking out the first word. But he did not reply, nor did he show up. She dropped her head in her hands and began to cry. She cried out of self-pity, out of his stubbornness, out of confusion and tiredness.
"Stop your weeping," he said, almost demandingly. She glared at the mirror, as if he was watching her behind it.
"No!" she exclaimed, wiping her eyes. "If you aren't going to teach me, then I might as well not listen to you." She didn't hear him and she couldn't see him, but she could tell that he was, at best, shocked. She didn't know whether to be proud or guilty about making him feel as such.
"Students listen to their teachers," he whispered.
"Students, yes. Opera-stars? I don't think so." She heard him growl as she cowered down slightly. If she could take back what she said, she most certainly would've.
"And who brought you to your stardom?!" he hissed, almost spitting out the last word. Angered, he finally appeared behind the mirror, both hands gripping either side of it with extreme force. His mask was not on his face and his blonde hair was messily combed in front of his face. "Who helped you climb the ladder from chorus girl to the lead?! What a selfish, arrogant, and ignorant little student you are!!" She stood up and raced for the door, but the knob wouldn't turn. He cackled. "You aren't leaving until you learn your lesson!"
"I don't need to be taught anything! If you would've come sooner, we could've started our normal singing lessons again, but you didn't, so what lesson is there left to teach? You don't seem very keen on teaching me singing!" she yelled, glaring at him. He let go of the mirror and gave her an almost mocking bow.
"Well, pardon me, your majesty," he spat, regaining his previous stance. "You're beginning to act like a little brat." She looked a bit taken aback. She regained herself and, as any person who had just been called such would do, became angry again.
"Brat? Oh, as if you're one to talk, Phantom!" She strode over to the mirror, glaring at him. "You haven't exactly been frolicking around the Opera House while spreading flower petals!"
"Neither have you," he grumbled. She knew he was right, but she didn't want to admit it to him. Clenching her fists, she turned away and strode back over to the door and tried again. "It won't open."
"So I've heard," she told him, begrudgingly. She began to pull violently on it, the knob threatening to fall off. Angered, she sighed irritably and crossed her arms across her chest.
"Well, what now, Phantom?" she asked in a huff. "I suppose now we shall just stand here and talk like normal people do."
"There is no harm in talking."
"I never said there was."
"You made it sound like there was." She looked at the mirror where he stood and stared at her. The two of them watched each other for a while.
"Are you disappointed in me?" she asked quietly, taking a step towards him. "The way you've been talking to me seems more brutal than the way you spoke to me before."
"Not so much disappointed then upset with you," he told her. She didn't want to press the matter any further. She walked up to the mirror, looking at his forlorn face. He held her gaze, pressing one hand against the mirror and feeling his brow knit and his eyes water. "I feel deceived," he whimpered, clawing at the mirror. She put her hand against the clear-mirror, their hands aligning with one another. "You lied to me…"
"I didn't lie to you," she said, shaking her head.
"Yes, you did! Don't lie to me again!" She shrunk back a bit as he snapped. Sighing and recapturing himself, he put both hands to the glass and lowered his head. "I thought I told you to leave me here…"
"I couldn't leave without saying a proper farewell…" He looked up, clawing at the mirror again.
"You already have, Christine," he whispered. She grabbed the side of the mirror and began to pull. "What are you doing?" he asked, stepping away as the mirror began to open.
"I'm saying goodbye and there's nothing you can do to stop me!" she decided. He held it shut as she stared at him.
"Just leave me already!" he demanded. She glowered at him and began to pull again. He still held it shut.
"Please, just let go!" she begged. He shook his head. Glaring at him, she exclaimed, "Now!" He stepped completely away and allowed her to pull it. Stepping in, she watched as he took a step back, as if to avoid her. "Please, just let me say goodbye… Let me thank you and apologize." He stood where he was. Taking a deep breath, she held her hands and looked to the ground. "Thank you for teaching me what I know… I wouldn't be where I am without you." She thought of what else to say, and she felt his gaze on her as she lifted her shoulders. "I'm sorry for acting like a brat and not acknowledging what you've taught me… I should give you more credit, even if I don't want to." She looked up at him.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice unsure.
"Because it seems right," she whispered.
"You had to walk through the mirror to say you were sorry?"
"It seemed more appropriate than saying it behind a mirror."
"I can still hear you behind the mirror."
"But now I'm in your presence," she said, a faint smile on her lips.
"Are you done?" he asked. He didn't sound impatient or bored; just curious.
"No. I also wanted to thank you for giving me Raoul. And he asked me to thank you for allowing me to be with him." He stared at her. Raoul? The fop wanted to thank him?
"Then why didn't he just come here?"
"He wanted to, but he was busy. So he asked me if I would tell you when I encountered you again," she said, her head tilted slightly. "He hopes you'll understand." He nodded slowly. "And that's it." He was silent. So desperate he was to hold her and to kiss her, but he knew that she didn't belong to him. He didn't know if doing so would make her uncomfortable. He certainly didn't want to make her uncomfortable. Quietly, and with an air of peace, Christine walked over to him and placed her lips gently against his scarred cheek. He closed his eyes and, despite that she was kissing his cheek, he began to cry. She let her lips linger before she finally pulled away and looked at his tearful face. He looked terribly heart-broken, even vulnerable. Pleasantly, she held his face with both hands and smiled comfortingly, but her knit brow showed that she was on the verge of giving way to tears. "Thank you," she whispered. He didn't respond, though he heard her as if she was a shining angel's voice in a perfectly silent room. He let out a troubled whine as she let go, walking through the mirror and back into her dressing room. Taking a quick glance back towards the mirror and seeing nobody there, she turned off the lights and reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked, and as she opened it she heard him whisper.
"You're welcome."