Scene:  Erik and Christine in his underground home, sometime after she has seen his real face.  They had been having a singing lesson, but he has broken into his own song and she listens.

He: My eyes burn a path across the room to where she stands, frozen in rapture at my voice.  She is a like a statue of the vestal virgin, only twenty - or perhaps a hundred - times more alluring, for she is made of flesh rather than cold, unyielding stone.  I know that if I were to reach out and touch that flesh now, it would be soft and warm.  But would she allow me to touch her?  Would she close her eyes and allow her sweet head to fall back slightly, as she does when I sing to her?  Would she surrender her body to my arms, as she does so willingly to the embrace of my voice?  Oh, curse my past - for I am a coward and dare not try.  The fear that the spell would break, that she would suddenly look on me with fear in her eyes, that she would turn and flee from me is too great.  So all I may do is extend the invisible limbs of my music, wrap them around her and caress her with my voice as I despair I will never do with my hands.  These hands are surprisingly human for a man with the face of a monster.  A man who wants her so badly that his hands tingle at the very thought of her skin, her silky hair, the sensation of her breath across the back of his palm ... I am he, a man made faint by her presence in his home and yet afraid to close the distance of these few yards that separate us.  Damn me to the blackest regions of hell! - if I am not there already.  Were I a normal man, there would be no question.  I would reach for her.  How deeply I yearn for that, for the ability to reach for her and not be crushed should she spurn me!  But I would be crushed ... I thought the years had taught me to fear no living thing, to satisfy myself at any cost by telling myself that I was not what They are, these humans.  But now, the defenses I had so carefully wrought in the silence of my solitude have been pulled down into heaps of rubble by my all-consuming passion for this girl.  I know I am only a man, a man half-drunk on being so near to his beloved, and half-mad with his own inner torment that prevents him from making her his own.  It is a fire that has spread to every part of my life, zinging through my veins and filling my heart until I fear it may explode.  Am I doomed to perish, burned to a cinder with love for her?  Or am I the Phoenix, wallowing in flames only moments before rising to glory?  This thought gives me hope, and my voice grows stronger, my song betraying my desire.  The glimmer in her eyes grows more intense, and seems almost to beckon to me.  "Go to her," it whispers; "Go to her for she is young, and afraid, as you are."  And as if they were possessed by some power far greater than my own - and perhaps that is truly the case, for my love for her surpasses every force I have ever known - my feet move.  And I step towards her.
 

She: We stand, separated by only a few yards, and his voice carries across to me like a stream of liquid ecstasy.  I close my eyes, rapt, and let it wash over me.  In waves, it surrounds my entire body; it seems to conjure arms that embrace me and fingertips that lovingly brush my cheek.  For a moment, my mind begins to fall into the old habit of thinking "Angel ... " but I stop myself, open my eyes again and look at him to dispel this fantasy.  He is not an angel - he is only a man.  But the indignance in that thought fades almost instantly; for how many times when his voice came to me in my dressing room did I wish for him to be made of flesh, as am I, that he might wrap his mighty arms around me and take me away from the dull drear of the Paris Opera?  Here I stand, immersed in that very dream ... and his singing is so intricately beautiful that it stirs some strange feeling from deep within my soul, brings color to my cheeks and makes my heart pound so loudly that I am sure he has made it his metronome!  The thoughts and sensations he excites in me - I never dreamed such feelings were possible, they are so dark and sensual and intoxicating.  God, does this man have blood on his hands?  How could such a sound of unearthly beauty, such aching feelings of passion, be produced by anything evil?  He cannot be, is not evil - just tormented, a captive, helpless at the mercy of a cruel world.  Like me.  I feel his eyes on me, and ache yet fear to lift mine and meet his gaze.  I know that it would sear me, set me aflame like boiling oil.  I am but kindling in his deft hands, and any advance on his part will surely spark me.  I can feel the heat on my body now, as he looks at me.  What thoughts are swimming in his mind at this moment?  Does he know how very dearly I have wished for the two of us alone together, how his unspoken adoration has made my heart swell with love for him, how powerless I would be to resist him if he should reach for me?  Do I want him to reach for me?  I force myself to look him in the eyes, and his song intensifies as if fed on my glance.  I feel it take control of my senses, invading nearly every corner of my mind with an ardent longing, and realize that his song and his soul will overtake me completely whenever he wills it.  I do not care.  I will allow him to enslave me, for it will not be slavery - I have longed for it.  So why then have I tormented him with my distance?  Because I am afraid ... I cannot go to him.  I am his pupil yet, and need him to lead me, guide me.  Come to me, Erik; come to me for I am young and frightened of these vast and all-consuming feelings that you stir in me.  And as if he can read my thoughts - and perhaps he does, for an expression of revelation and absolute tenderness crosses his ruined face - he moves.  And he steps towards me.
 

He: I feel as though I am falling towards her … no earthly force can stop me.
 

She: I watch him moving towards me, transfixed.  Something knots in my stomach and I cannot breathe.
 

He: But inches from her, I falter.  I am disemboweled by fear.  All I can do is lamely reach out to her.
 

She: He opens his arms, offers me his embrace.  I gladly throw away the last shreds of resistance and fall into his arms.
 

He: She leans into me and, instinctively, I wrap my arms around her.  My fingers entwine themselves in her luscious curls.  She innocently hides her flushing face against my shoulder.
 

She: I can feel the hardness of his mask against my scalp as he buries his face in my hair.
 

He: I feel as though I am empty inside, like I have no other purpose than to hold her and love her.  Tears run like a river beneath the mask as I whisper, "I love you, Christine," over and over again.

She: The velvet of his coat is soft against my cheek, but I drench it with my tears at the simple, moving beauty of his confession.  The dam inside of me is broken and the water rushes forth; love spills out of my eyes and onto his lapels.
 

He: Her small, frail body shakes with emotion and she is sobbing into my shirtfront.  I tighten my embrace around her and rock her like a child, singing a quiet tune to calm her.
 

She: I look up into his face and can see the love brimming from his eyes too, can hear it spilling from his mouth as he sings to me.  I incline my chin towards him, thinking to stop the flood with my lips.
 

He: She is leaning towards me, in what I realize with astonishment is an invitation.  I do not hesitate.
 

She: His hand trembles in the small of my back as he kisses me.  I taste his tears, his pain, his fear that I will pull away.  I do not.
 

He: I kiss her, kiss her, kiss her.  I never want to end this bond, her youth and beauty warming my cold frame, and my love winding itself into a protective cocoon around her.  Is that her, or me, or the world holding its breath?  Nothing moves … time itself stands still.
 

She: I know I shall faint … but please, God, never let him stop kissing me.
 

He: I feel her tremble – is it from fear?  I force myself to end the kiss, petrified that I have upset her.
 

She: He gently pulls away and looks at me questioningly.  Oh heaven – does he think he has frightened me?  No, no, no, Erik … never think that, ever.
 

He: A brief moment passes in which she looks at me with such intensity – oh, how I dare not hope, but it feels like love – and then, in one last beautiful gesture that nearly breaks my heart with joy, she kisses me.
 

She: I reassure him with my lips, wind my arms around his neck and pull him close.  Long after the kiss ends, I am still holding him and whispering, “I love you, Erik … my beloved, I will never leave you …”