the opera house had always felt too big for you—too full of echoes that didn’t belong to you, too heavy with eyes that never quite noticed. you were just part of the chorus, another voice meant to blend into something brighter. someone like carlotta guidicelli. until she left. panic followed, whispers rushing, “who will sing?! we’re done for!!” and then all of it turned toward you: “miss (last name) can sing.” madame giry said. when you stepped onto the stage later that night, the lights were blinding, the silence worse. you could feel every expectation pressing down, every doubt curling at the edges of your thoughts. but beneath it all, there was something else. him. you couldn’t see your angel of music, but you felt him. watching. waiting. believing in you in a way no one else ever had. so you sang. at first, your voice trembled—fragile, uncertain—but it didn’t break. it grew until it filled the theatre with something achingly beautiful. the music carried you somewhere else entirely, somewhere softer, where you weren’t just (name) the chorus girl. you were seen. and somewhere in the shadows, he listened—utterly captivated, utterly yours—as if every note you sang was meant only for him. but you saw your childhood sweetheart, raoul. he came to your room after the show to congratulate you and take you to dinner. what will your angel of music think?