I’ve always known of my two-way mirror. That is why I never step before it. I am not afraid of the phantom that awaits me there. It brings him ecstasy whenever he comes to my room to teach me, and I’ve never been able to bring anyone else in this opera house joy. Not even to Madame Giry no matter how well I perform.

And that is because I was born with a cursed face.

Though he haunts, extorts, and is said to even kill, I admire this phantom because he is said to be like me. Though I have no courage to approach the mirror to see for myself, it is said he wears a mask like me as well. Except his is white as snow, as a dove’s feather, standing out against his face. It covers his soulless eyes and his pasty skin, using it as a shield from the curse he too has.

Only I am fortunate enough to be able to afford such an undetectable mask, one that matches my skin seamlessly. Unlike him, I don’t have to live underground.

“Christine! Hurry up!” Madame Giry demands.

“I’m almost ready!” I reach for my pink ballet shoes, slip them on, and quickly wrap the ribbons up my calves. One side feels looser than the other, but I have no time to retie them for comfort.

“Why are you still a ballerina?” This deep, dark, voice has asked this question every performance. I defer him from the subject every time he approaches it, but, like with his notes to the managers, he’s always persistent. “You know your talents, my angel. Use them!”

“The opera house already has Carlotta.”

“Carlotta is nowhere near what you can be, and you know that.” Before I know it, his hand reaches for the side of my face the mask covers. I look up and see him looming over me in the mirror, and I am unable to push him away when he realizes what he feels isn’t the soft skin of my cheek. My eyes widen, pupils dilating. His fingers glaze over the painted eyebrow, the rouged cheek, every detail that makes the mask so undetectable when first looked upon it. When they reach the edge, my heart nearly stops, but he doesn’t remove it. He knows I wouldn’t do the same to him.

“Is this why?” He asks tearfully. “Because you too suffer my fate?”

“We cannot have this conversation now. I still have a performance to get to.”

“CHRISTINE DAAE! GET ON STAGE AT ONCE!” Madame Giry bangs her cane against the floor, and I rush into the phantom. He wraps his arm around me, breath heavy with anger against my curls.

“I must go. Please leave.” I whisper to into his chest. “I will see you afterwards.”

As soon as he lets me go, I run out to the stage. I know I will hear it from Madame Giry afterwards, but though I was almost late, I’m in position just in time for the curtains to open.