Three weeks!

It's been three weeks since I've seen or contacted Cameron... and I've never been more miserable in my entire life! (Picture me sobbing endlessly as I write this line.)

The morphine, though... oh, yes, the morphine! The morphine is my friend. It helps me forget why I cry.

If I believed in God, I would thank Him and curse Him at the same time. I would thank Him for having some person think of morphine, because it makes me happy and relatively sane, and I would curse Him for making me love Cameron, because I lose my mind whenever I think of him.

But I don't believe in God.

I do, however, and unfortunately, believe in love, and that none of us can choose where we will love.

I'd like to not believe in that... but it isn't happening, not even with the morphine. The morphine never lets me forget that one thing that I so strongly believe in...

Cameron was rehearsing on stage one day when he saw François up in the flies and knew that he had to talk to him right away. He wanted, and needed, to talk to him about Christine. He needed to see his Angel of Music again; he felt rather lost and alone without her.

"Excuse me," he said hurriedly, and then he walked off of the stage and went up to where François was standing, observing the rehearsal that was going on below him.

"Jannes?" he inquired rather tentatively as he approached François.

François turned to him. "Ah, Monsieur Luc," he said, nodding. "It is good to see that you have returned safely from her lair."

Cameron looked worried. "Yes, I have but... well, Jannes, that's what I was going to talk to you about. Have you seen her lately?"

François nodded silently.

"How is she? Is she doing all right?"

"No, she's not. She's stressed... and perhaps a little sad," François sighed, then looked over at the young man before him. "And, from what she's told me about it, which isn't a lot, it's your fault."

Cameron bowed his head in shame. "Yes," he said softly. "Yes, I hurt her... I feel bad. As a matter of fact, I feel terrible."

François laughed a little, although Cameron could tell that there was a sort of sadness and pity in his eyes. "Well, you shouldn't feel that bad for hurting her. She's normally not in very high spirits as it is, if you understand what I mean."

Cameron's eyes narrowed in confusion. "No, I don't."

"You don't know - you don't know about her father? She hasn't told you?" François asked, surprised. "Her father was killed six months ago. He raised her from when she was about a month old... he was The Phantom before she was. She's very emotional about it; talking about him isn't an easy subject for her. I don't think she'll ever get over it."

"Oh, how sad." Cameron looked upset as he glanced up at François. "Jannes, I need to speak to her... please."

"I don't think that that's a very good idea, Monsieur Luc." François shook his head. "She's quite angry with you, though she tries not to show it. I think it would be best if you just stayed away from her - for a while, at least."

Then, without another word, he turned and started to walk away.

Cameron took his arm and held in a firm, rather urgent grip. "Jannes, please... I need to talk to her... I need to tell her I'm sorry. Please tell her that I want to meet with her."

François sighed resignedly. "Very well. I shall speak to her. Where would you like to meet her - if she agrees?"

"The chapel."

François nodded, then walked off to go down to Christine's lair.

He walked inside another entrance of the lair and saw her sitting at the piano, resting her head on her arm, which was on the piano, with her eyes closed. He thought that, maybe, she was actually asleep, which he'd never seen happen before.

"Christine!" he called out to get her attention.

Upon hearing him call out her name, she opened her eyes and slowly raised her head.

"Hmm?" she murmured, rubbing her eyes and sighing rather tiredly as she rose from the piano bench. "Oh. Hello, François."

He walked up to her. "I have something to tell you," he informed her. "A certain Monsieur Luc wishes to speak with you tonight."

At the mention of Cameron, she looked angry and she turned away, crossing her arms. "You may tell Monsieur Luc that I am disinclined to acquiesce to his request."

When he didn't reply after a moment, she turned to him. He was staring at her, a confused expression on his face. He obviously didn't understand what it was that she had said.

"It means No."

"Ah," he said, nodding. "Well, while that makes you sound very intelligent, I don't think it's the best response."

"Oh, François, you're so fickle!" she snapped. "First you tell me to let him leave and to not associate with him, and when he wants to talk to me, you tell me that I should talk to him! I do wish you'd make up your mind! Would you like me to let him be or spend time with him?"

"Just go speak to him, Christine," he sighed. "He wants to meet you in the chapel."

She sighed rather irritably. "Fine."

Later that night, Cameron paced about in the chapel anxiously, waiting for Christine and continually checking his watch. François had told him that he would try to make Christine come and speak to him, and though no specific time had been given, he was sure that she would have been there by now.

He looked at his watch for the last time and saw that he had been waiting in the chapel for half an hour, causing him to let out a sigh. It didn't look like she was going to come... she must hate him very much, he decided.

Letting out a second sigh and feeling angry with himself that he had blown his chances with his personal Angel of Music, he resignedly and reluctantly turned and started to make his way out of the chapel. However, a familiar female voice coming from behind him stopped him in his tracks.

"You wished to see me, monsieur?"

Feeling unspeakable joy course through his veins, he whirled around. There stood his Angel, fully dressed in black, her arms folded beneath her cloak. Her grey-green eyes were bloodshot, indicating that she'd been crying. Then a lot of his joy vanished, and all he could really feel was self-loathing for what he'd put her through.

"Angel!" he exclaimed, managing to smile at her even though he felt upset about her appearance. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"That, I think, is entirely a matter of opinion," she retorted, scoffing slightly.

As he tried to think of what to say to her, he was silent for a moment, then noticed that though her arms were folded, they were being held slightly apart from each other, not touching.

Curious as to why she was folding her arms in such an unusual manner, he grabbed her arm, turned it over, and held it out, seeing the bruises that lined her veins and making him horrified. He recognized the arm of a morphine addict when he saw it - his mother had been a morphine addict herself.

"May God forgive me!" he gasped, tears of remorse filling his clear blue eyes as they looked into her grey-green ones. "Angel, I'm so sorry!"

"Never mind," she snapped as she broke their eye contact, pulling her arm out of his grasp and folding it underneath her cloak again. "And how many times must I tell you that my name is Christine?"

"I'm sorry, Christine."

"Sorry for... what?"

"Hurting you. I did hurt you, didn't I? Oh, I'm a criminal who deserves to be guillotined." He bowed his head in a gesture of remorse for a moment, then looked back up at her. "Do you forgive me?"

Don't forgive him! a voice, the same voice that had been talking to her the day he'd removed her mask, screamed inside her head. Don't take him back! You'll soon regret it if you do!

However, she chose to ignore the voice and let out a resigned sigh, extending a hand out to him. "I suppose so. Will you come with me?"

"Always." He took her hand and smiled.

She smiled back at him rather tentatively, and then, without another word, she led him back down to her lair.