Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t disappear. There’s nothing you can do to melt back into the crowd around you, no matter how hard you wish you could.

The tube carriage rattles and jolts around us as we clatter along the tracks deep beneath the streets of London. And I feel it again, the familiar tug of the stranger’s eyes on me, staring.

I’ve been in their house. Or at least they think I have, but I don’t know them. We’re friends already, or we’re enemies, but I don’t know which. I’m part of some story they love or hate. I’m part of the story of who they are. They’ve rooted for me, cried with me, we’ve shared so much, and now I am right here in front of them. Of course, they’re going to stare. I’m the unreal made real. On the fringes of my awareness, I feel the figure finally break the connection, and whisper to the person beside them. I try to focus on my novel, to let my breath deepen, and the story wash over me once more…

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