He steps toward me, reaching into his pocket and pulling something out. I watch incredulously as he drops it on my lap, stepping right over me like it's nothing. I glance down, blinking with surprise when I see that it's my engagement ring.

"You set a date for the wedding," he says. "That's what you do."

Vitale.

He traces the name again and again, the rough texture of his hands skimming along my back. It's as if he's branding me with his touch, claiming me as his with the signature of his fingertips, an ironclad contract forged with blood, sweat, and tears.

My tears, usually.

It was almost my blood, too.

According to Greek Mythology, people were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Four hands to touch with. Two mouths to speak. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves.

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.