I'm nearing the stalls doors but I can't feel my feet. Am I even walking? Feels like I'm floating.

Roman's words from earlier echo in my ears.

"Nobody. She is nobody."

Does he only see me as a fling? Is he ashamed of me? Is it about his image? Can our connection be one-sided?

Perhaps Olga is right and there's nothing magical about us. Twin flames don't exist, and Roman's just another dude who wants to get laid.

But then, he had so many chances to have his way with me. I begged him to come over to my apartment on our first date. If Roman was solely after sex, he could have had it. Easily.

I fill my cheeks with air and enter the dim theatre. Everything is red in here—the seats, the carpets, even the curtains are all deep, velvety red—but somehow my dress is redder, brighter. Heads turn as I pass by, then quickly glance away. But I'm used to it now. I'm keeping my gaze on my high heels, trying to put one foot in front of the other.

My steps quicken as I near the stage, searching for my seat. It's the empty one next to an elderly couple. My neighbor, a lady with gray hair, looks at me as I squeeze past the tight rows, and we lock eyes.

I offer her a polite smile.

She pulls her lips up in disgust, then turns away.

I stay frozen for a brief second. How dare she?

In that moment, that total stranger becomes the embodiment of everything I hate and everything that's wrong with the universe. It all happens in an instant, I can't help it. I hate her guts for merely existing.

I blame her for my bag that burst earlier.

And I blame her for the people that's been eyeing me up and down.

I blame her for my red dress.

And for Roman's awkward behavior.

I hate her!

I just hate her for being able to spend thousands of dollars on opera tickets.

Then my eyes shift toward the bald man sitting next to her, and I hate him too. He must be her husband. They probably have a cat, a white Persian breed with a grumpy face. It probably has a diamond collar around its neck, and I hate their cat too. It must have a stupid name—something short and annoying that repeats itself. Like Fluff-fluff. God, I even hate the name they picked for their imaginary pet.

I check my phone and take a seat next to my arch nemesis. When our arms accidentally touch, we both pull away at the same time.

She probably hates my guts too.

I try to ignore the negative energy from the Devil Wearing Prada, and focus on the stage. The orchestra is tuning their instruments. The high notes of flutes, the lows of trombones and occasional violins reach the audience. And I realize, I'm about to watch a man sing in gibberish.

The lights blink. I peer over my shoulder and spot Roman making his way through the aisle. He pats one of his partner's arms, then enters our row. He's checking the ticket on his phone like his life depends on it.

The main lights turn off as he approaches, and the instruments get louder. I quickly grab my bag from the empty seat beside me and straighten up, sending my date an inviting smile. But Roman doesn't look at me.

Why doesn't he look at me?

After clearing his throat, Roman leaves an empty chair between us, and sits next to an old guy.

A old guy!

My throat feels itchy and dry as I gape at Roman. His constant frown is back, and his nostrils are flaring with every breath.

I slowly shut my mouth. My chest is about to burst. What the hell did I do wrong?

I reach over to touch him, but the stage's curtains fold open and make me gasp. I quickly pull my arm back. My leg twitches and my knee hits the lady.

Something slips from my lap and hits the floor.

Fuck...

My eyes are about to pop. It's my bag. My bag is on the floor! And silver foils are scattered around my feet like fucking Halloween candy.

I gulp on a breath and start coughing.

A baritone voice starts singing.

I instinctively snap a gaze at my enemy from the corner of my eye. This is obviously her fault. Her knee was in my space! Even though, it's me that hit her, it's easier to focus on hating her instead of focusing on my own embarrassment.

She shuffles in her seat, and I know that she's looking at the floor. I can feel it. She bends down to help. I bend too, to stop her, but she's quicker.

She reaches for a foil, but then realizes what it is and lifts her awkward gaze into my eyes. Her mouth gapes for a second. And I swear, I can hear her judgmental thoughts oozing from the wrinkles on her face, as if she's saying, 'Bitch, what are you even doing here?'

"I—I'll get them," I say.

After whipping me another disapproving glare, the she-devil turns to her husband and starts whispering something into his ear. Great. Now he's looking at the mess around my feet too. And to add to it all, the baritone man on the stage starts screaming.

I'm in that awkward position between sitting and leaning forward. I have to go for it. I just have to dive and collect whatever I can. Pressing a hand against my raging heart, I scoop some condoms off the floor, and start shoving them into my bag.

Roman's head is turned to the stage, but I know he's watching me—along with the entire row! His gaze is burning all around my shoulders. Letting out a long sigh, Roman picks a couple of condoms off the floor, then quickly tucks them into his pocket.

I can't even look at him.

After stuffing as many condoms into my bag as I can, I sit back up. My face is all hot. But I'm cool. I have to keep it cool.

Meanwhile, the singer is still crying his lungs out. My eyes are little blurry. There's a haze around the stage lights. God, I think I'm about to faint.

I bring the two ends of my bag together and lift my head to breathe. In and out. In, then out.

I'll be fine. This isn't the end of the world. I just need to get out of here. But I can't do this all alone. I turn to Roman for support.

His lips are pressed into a hard line. His harsh frown is full on and his hands are clenched around the armrest.

My heart sinks a little. So, is this it? Will he keep pretending like we don't know each other?

I keep staring into his eyes, hoping he'll look at me. He doesn't.

I'll count from five, and if you don't do anything, I'm going to leave, Roman.

I don't care about the audience or the performance. Roman can stay here, or leave with me.

I start counting.

Five... Roman closes his eyes and lowers his head.

Four...

Three... I'm leaving, Roman. I'll leave and never look back.

Two... Do something, damn it.

One.

I bite my lip and nod.

Just as I'm about to stand, Roman grabs my wrist and slips into the empty seat next to me. "It'll be remission soon," he says, leaning close. "In thirty minutes."

I try to pull away from his grasp, but Roman doesn't let go. His fingers twine around mine, and he carries my hand onto his lap. His features are still stiff, but his caramel eyes are warm and sincere. "You look so beautiful tonight, Abigail," he whispers into my ear.

His words are electric, and they change everything. I sit back into my seat and step on the last foil that shines on the floor, hiding it from curious eyes.