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I learned that from Plato's Symposium during my time in Santino's class.

It's a beautiful concept: your soul mate, a part of you, existing in the world inside of another body. People spend their entire lives searching for the one, the one who can complete them, but I never had to look. Mine started chasing me before I was even born.

I once thought the reality couldn't be as fascinating as the fantasy, but I was wrong. So very wrong. It might be the case for other people, but they don't know Ignazio Vitale. They haven't met him. They haven't seen what I see in his eyes.

He's my other half.

Maybe the stories got it wrong, I think.

Maybe Cinderella didn't live happily ever after.

Maybe, come midnight, she wanted to run away.

Maybe her prince wouldn't let her.

Mine didn't.

Vitale.

No sooner I figure out what he's writing along my back, his hand leaves my flesh, the bed shifting as he rolls over, finally turning away from me. I breathe a deep sigh of relief, but it doesn't last long.

The moment he pulls away, I start to miss his touch.

For as much as I hate him, I also love him.

I love him.

I love him.

And I fucking hate that, too.

He's a monster, wrapped up in a pretty package.

But I find myself wondering at times like this, when I feel the distance between us, if maybe in his eyes, the real monster is me.