She jumps on his shoulders, wrapping her legs around him, and I have never felt invisible before, but I do. And I hate it. If I had the proper ears for such things, I’d hear it put a crack in the lens, not the one through which I see Peter but the one through which I see myself. Him ignoring me, him all over Calla, doesn’t make me like Peter less—though I wish it did. All it does is bubble up within me the most tragic of side effects. A terrible thirst. I am invisible to him. And now I must be seen.
