I would like everybody who reads this to take into account that in most every version of Phantom, we never get to hear Erik laugh (Unless of course it is for some maniacal reason).

Erik's POV

I wanted to go see who the voice belonged to, although I already have a hunch, but the longer I left Daroga waiting, the longer he would interrogate me, and that was something I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemies. I'd insist on something much worse.

"Where, pray tell, did you go at this time in the morning? As the entire opera house is asleep, I'd assume you'd have no one to irritate." Nadir said, as I entered my kitchen and took a cup of the scalding liquid, discarding my cloak on the floor somewhere behind me.

I glared at him, a very thoroughly exchanged gesture between the two of us. "What they get, comes to them for valid reasons, I assure you." I said, letting the burning liquid slip down my throat. "I assure you also, that not everyone is asleep. Not everyone can sleep as easily as you can after a night to the brothel."

Nadir shrugged and set his cup down. "Excuse me for wanting the joys that every man should enjoy in his life. I see you're not too keen on the idea."

"I have what's left of my dignity, Persian. I think I'll hang onto it for as long as I can."

"Well then, you still haven't answered my question."

"I don't think I have, have I? Well, I think you don't need to know. You've been so nosy for so long, maybe we should break you of that habit. Starting with knowing my whereabouts all the time."

Nadir downed the rest of his cup and gathered his things. "Suit yourself, Erik, but someday, whatever you're doing will stab you in the back, and it won't be pretty."

"Right." I said, finishing my own tea.

Christine's POV

After waking up, I couldn't go back to sleep. Grateful that I'd somehow waken up in the first place, I had no desire to fall back into that haunting string of nightmares. Needing something to occupy myself with, I looked through all of the old books and found a blank leather bound journal. Perfect.

I wrote. I wrote for hours. Nothing else around me was visible. It just was the pen as it scratched along the paper as the words came out of their own will. I wrote of everything. My papa and what I remembered about my old home. I wrote about Erik, and his voice, and our notes. I wrote about how he was my only friend. I wrote about how I was afraid to even close my eyes for fear of seeing those horrible images dance behind my lids again. I wrote until there was nothing to write about and then I put down the pen. Looking at the small bedside clock, I saw that it was well past three in the afternoon. Had it really been that long? I looked at the journal and saw how it was indeed filled a fourth of the way already.

I decided to make soup for dinner, but could only push the noodles around the bowl until my stomach forced me to eat, growling in protest of being without food for the entire day.

The next note was waiting for me when I walked back into my room.

You sing?

I blushed, despite how the inquiry made no advances.

Singing for me is very private. I've only ever sand with my Papa. No one else has ever heard me sing. That was a song he taught me when I had nightmares about mother.

I went up, cloying to find something to do, finding something to that month's opera, Le Prophète was playing in a half an hour. I found Mme. Giry and asked if I'd have to buy a ticket to see it. She shook her head and replied.

"If you're going to audition, you might as well see a show before you do."

"Where shall I sit?" I asked, knowing that the backstage area would be incredibly crowded.

She bit the inside of her cheek, thinking. "Have you met anyone? While you were here, I mean."

"You, that one manager, Moncharmin, if I recall correctly, and Erik."

Mme. Giry's eyes widened considerably, and I noticed them flicker to my throat for a split second.

"He and you are the only people I really even know. I can't wait to meet the rest of the ballet."

She looked over me questionably; finally she motioned for me to follow her with the slight tilt of her cane. We travelled down a few corridors before stopping at a door with the number five etched on a golden plate.

"The seats were all sold out, but this is the only open one in the entire opera." She turned to me and spoke once more. "If you're telling the truth, then nothing shall be feared. If you aren't, let's hope you'll learn your lesson."

Madame Giry's POV

Knowing Erik to be incapable of murdering a mere girl of eighteen, I let her in the box and left her, questioning myself and once almost going back to retrieve her. If she wasn't telling the truth, she would learn.

Erik's POV

When I got to my box, I was mad. Someone was in my box.

I was about to not-so-nicely help them out of the box, until I realized the mane of chocolate curls looked vaguely familiar. Christine. The look on her face as she watched the opera was of an exited child, almost comical. Full of excitement, wonder and amazement. Exactly what I looked like when I saw my first opera.

"Is this your first opera?" I asked.

Christine nodded, still transfixed on the opera, hardly even acknowledging the question. I laughed and she snapped out of it, looking around.

"I've never heard you laugh before." She said quietly. That stopped me mid-thought. I haven't laughed for… ever. The last time I'd laughed was at least months ago. Even then, it was at the stupidity of some person in a book. At fiction. The last time I'd laughed in and for real life was too long ago to count the time.

"Erik?" she said, wondering if I was still there.

I decided it would be better not to reply and backed back into the shadows and headed back down to the lair.

The rug in my library should be worn from how many times I've walked back and forth on it tonight, but it still sits there, together as ever, mocking me at how broken and confused I am. What happened tonight? It was strange. Like a bunch of knots in my stomach unknotted themselves, but other new ones formed to take their place.

How had I gone from one second merely tolerating Christine to allowing her into my head? How had I gone from letting her stay for a favor to her father to wanting her around? How had I gone from allowing her to enjoying her presence?

All I knew is I couldn't let this thing go too far. What would happen if she ever saw me? For what I really was, without my mask, without the ghastly rumors and the reputation that had built up over the years? Would she, could she, still accept me?

So guys, I know this is random, but I was thinking about how everybody says never say never. But what about the good nevers? Like Love Never Dies? Do you honestly want me to say LOVE ALWAYS DIES?! I didn't think so. I'm going to tell you a very wise quote from none other than one of my BFFs.

NEVER SAY NEVER, ALWAYS SAY ALWAYS, SOMETIMES SAY SOMETIMES.