More Than Just A Dream

You Mean... Its Still There?

AMIELE'S POV:
I stare at my reflection not making a noise. Not moving an inch.
I sat there for hours, trying to hold my breath, trying to be as still as a statue.
Praying somehow, I could die, and leave this world behind; go to heaven, meet Erik and hope he would remember me.
But even in heaven, he wouldn't know who I was. I knew he'd be in heaven, the thought of him going any other place ceased to enter my now hollow mind.
In heaven, Erik would chase Christine, the real one, not the one I knew. Because the one I knew never existed.
Still somehow, I couldn't ignore the little voice, the extremely small and timid one that said: he was real, it's more than just a dream.
And I latched onto that thought, and hoped and prayed everyday.
I wonder what people would think, that I, Amiele Belrose, went back in time while I was in a coma for over three months, and fell in love with the phantom of the opera.
Surely they would send me to an asylum. I would probably be there craziest there!
I laughed dryly, but it came out a hoarse croak, and I closed my eyes. I couldn't bare my reflection anymore, and even though I saw his face, his heartbreakingly beautiful face, that brought me pain, I kept my eyes closed. If this is what it took to be with him then so be it.
"We need to get her out of her room." I heard my dad state to my mom, 'good luck with that.' I thought sarcastically.
"We need to get her a therapist!" My mom shouted back, I don't think they realize I can hear them. I may be numb but I'm not stupid.
"Let's just give her some time, some fresh air will fix everything, and we mustn't jump to conclusions so quickly." My father suggested, adding on the last part quickly.
"No, she's depressed! We need to fix it before it gets too late!" My mom argued back, I couldn't take this anymore. I stripped down and put on a tight plain gray shirt, I put on tight black sweatpants and slipped on my moccasins. I slipped on my blue north face and shoved my phone into my pocket, I honestly didn't care how I looked; I was not, no AM not going to a therapist.
"Bye going on a walk." I muttered waving to my parents half-heartily as I stumbled out the door.
"Where are you going?" My mom asked me hurriedly, concern and worry lacing her voice.
"Just out." Was all I replied, hurrying as fast as I could with what little energy I had to escape the wrath of their questions.
I pulled my hood over my head, I didn't want to disturb the beautiful sereneness around me, the perfect setting. I would ruin it with my emptiness and lack of emotion, I would turn even the brightest trees into a gloomy oak.
I kept on walking, not looking where I was going, but instead focusing on my feet so I wouldn't trip. Because if I tripped I knew I would have no motivation to get back up, and then I'd die on the sidewalk.
My feet stopped upon instinct and I looked up, my eyes widened in horror. It was the opera Populaire! And it was not wrecked to the ground.