Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. I make no profit from this piece of fiction.

Lost in Obsession
Chapter Three

Paris, 1880

It was a chilly August evening, and Christine was all too eager to stay indoors for the remainder of the day.

After her taste of perfection and happiness on the stage, everything had gone back to the way it was before, and Christine was left wondering if everything had just been a dream and this was her first day at the Opera House once more.

Carlotta was once again singing, Christine was once again a member of the chorus, and The Angel of Music was nowhere to be found.

But really, should she be thinking of him as such? He had revealed himself as nothing but a man, and a strange one, at that. And now, Christine did not know what to think of him, or how. Was he dangerous? Surely his anger had been frightening, but it was understandable, was it not? After all, she had been the one to so rudely remove the mask on his face… But how was she to know what it was that lay beneath?

Truly, she regretted the action, and wished dearly for a chance to apologize, but it did not seem that she would get such an opportunity. It had been three days, and there had been no sign of her strange angel.

No songs in her ear as she fell asleep, no roses left upon her vanity while she was rehearsing, and no lessons, worst of all.

Christine found herself dearly missing just the companionship of her odd friend. He had been so kind, so supportive.

It had seemed so very often that he was the only one who truly understood her loneliness, and her desire for companionship and a friendly face – or at least a friendly voice!

For the first time in many months, Christine was alone.

And she had no one to blame but herself.

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Meanwhile, Erik was having quite similar feelings. All alone again, he was acutely aware of just how important one young woman had become in his dreary excuse for a life.

He deeply regretted his harsh treatment of his precious and only friend when she had removed his mask, after all, could he blame her for her curiosity? She was hardly more than a child, fresh to womanhood and woefully new to the world in general, let alone the strange world that Erik called his own.

He could not blame her for pulling his mask away, he could only blame himself for the rage that followed.

Something must be done.