She sees herself as a little grey bird, hidden amongst the shadows. Perfectly camouflaged, perfectly safe.
Perfectly invisible. They do not notice her, their eyes flick over her as if she is not there. And if she truly were a little grey bird it would be for the best, would preserve her and protect her always. But she is not a bird. No. She is Christine, only Christine, and perfectly invisible beneath their gaze.
She is not a bird, and she is not made of glass either though sometimes she feels as if she might be the way their eyes cut right through her, piercing her to the core. She might shatter before them and they would not see her, would find only her shards scattered on the floor and never pause to wonder what happened? Mademoiselle Daaé, where is she? They would simply sweep her up, dump her and continue on with hardly a word.
But he is different, the Angel. She is not so blasphemous to think of him (is it a him? Do angels have such distinctions?) as her Angel. How arrogant would she have to be, to try to claim him as solely her own? No. He is not her Angel, he is the Angel, sent by the Lord on high to lonely little girls to bring them music, to remind them of what they could have been, might have been, in another world.
(The Angel is kind, undoubtedly. Has given her the fantastic gift of her voice. But what use is her voice to her if she is invisible to all of the rest? If they do not notice her? Sometimes, and she knows it is wrong to think so but sometimes, she thinks he is not an Angel but a demon sent to torment her with gifts that are no good to her, with dreams of grandeur, to remind her of her father. Her father would never entertain such notions that it might not be an Angel, and she swallows the thoughts of her dark moments so as not to tarnish her memories of him. He would be so disappointed, if he knew.)
But the Angel sees her, always. She knows that, and sometimes when she is in the Opera House, not performing or rehearsing or practicing, she can feel his eyes on the back of her neck, stirring the little hairs there. She whips around and does not see him, sees nothing at all out of the ordinary. (She did not expect to, truly.)
And, oh, how she wishes she could see him, just once. Could tell him how much she looks forward to his visits, the way his voice soothes the aching in her chest, how good it is to be noticed even if only by divinity. After all, she cannot be truly alone if he is always watching, no matter how the cold seeps into her veins.
It is not that he is especially kind in his words, but just in how he is. He does not often praise her, but sometimes leaves her with a kind word for how much she tries. And sometimes he finds amusement in the things she says and laughs a little, breathy laugh that seems to even catch him off guard. (She wonders, in those moments, if she has committed a sin, but a laugh as pure as that needs to be heard sometime.) Surely he cannot like being invisible any more than she does. Surely it would be a kindness to both of them, to see each other plain, just once. She would curl her fingers around his own (do angels have fingers? Surely, if they choose to take a human form, they must do.), and squeeze them, and thank him for all he's done for her. He's given her back her voice, burden though it feels at times, and surely her father must be pleased with that.
The cold night air chills her to the bone and she sighs, lets the fantasy fall away. She must not let herself dwell on dreams, lest she get her hopes up. She cannot see him, never mind that he is the only one that sees her (and not even Mamma can truly attest to doing that, not now). She must make do with that voice, that wonderful, beautiful voice, and it will sustain her, keep breath in her lungs. At least, for now.