Dead To Me by Mary McCoy
When we were home on sunday nights, Annie was full of clever ideas and funny stories, but when she came home from singing at those parties, she looked like all the life had been sucked out of her.
Once, I asked her why she wouldn't look at me, why she wouldn't talk to me. All she said was "Alice, when I get home from those things, I just wish I was invisible, so I retend that I am."
So, I let her be invisible. It didn't seem like much to ask. If I'd known she would develop a taste for it, that one day she'd dissapear altogether, maybe I would have done something else.
Maybe, I would have tried harder to stop her.