When I was five, my parents took me to the Louvre in Paris, France. Even though it was over a decade ago, I still remember standing with my back against the velvet rope in front of the Mona Lisa and posing for my parents with a ridiculously cheesy smile.

I got lost that day. Inside the museum.

My parents thought it would be a good idea to sign up for a guided tour instead of exploring it freely for ourselves, but I was never one that liked to move at other people's paces. I got bored rather quickly, so, when my parents weren't paying attention, I let the group of other tourists slip ahead before running in the opposite direction.

I casually strolled through the halls of the museum, slipping easily through clusters of people and blending in with the crowds. I stopped at places that interested me and continued past exhibits that bored me. I went up and down the stairs, exploring the museum to my heart's content, faintly aware I would be in trouble when my parents eventually noticed I was missing and found me.

Somewhere along the way, it occurred to me that I was more or less lost, with no idea of my own location, never mind my parents'. But that didn't stop me from continuing through the halls and rooms of the museum.

There was one exhibit in that I remember really loving. The Ancient Greek statues. For some reason, this wing of the museum had very few people, and there was this strange quietness about it that lured me in. I walked through the rows of the statues, pausing for the ones that interested me.

Every time I reflect on the statues now, it occurs to me how each one was strangely erotic– not that I knew it back then. The one of Cupid saving Psyche with a kiss (which I guess makes sense why it was so erotic), The Three Graces, Hermaphrodite sleeping, Perseus and Andromeda– they all had this romantic charm to them that I never fully understood.

Learning about Greek history in middle school was a rough awakening. The stories behind those statues were a lot more gruesome than portrayed by how lovely and pristinely white they were.

My family went back to Paris last year. Walking through the Louvre again was different. Now, those statues held a duality to them. For every ounce of romance or sensuality that they held, they would also possess a wicked story, filled with hate and anger and tragedy.

That was the first time I realized it: you can't have love without also having hate. And you can't really know what it means to love someone unless you also know what it's like to hate someone.

The two polar opposites of the world. I thought I had them all figured out.

*

this is the same part from the beginning of chapter one; i didn't change it all, i just decided to turn this little part into a prologue because the pace of it is very different from the first chapter, and it's just meant to set the story as a whole. I'm going to leave this part at the beginning of chapter one (at least for now) as well for the old readers. So for new readers, you're not seeing double, i'm just kind of lazy (you'll have to get used to it)