The Invisible Old
Due to loneliness, she spends most of her free time online. She met several online lovers. If they ask for money, an emergency, and urgency she just walks away to get a new one.
Noni didn't just walk away from her online lovers; she ghosted them with a surgical cruelty born of deep-seated resentment. She felt, subconsciously, that if she was invisible in real life, she could at least exercise profound visibility by causing pain online. Her current interest, "CaptainSam," a supposed widower from Seattle, was on the cusp of an emergency needing $500. Noni typed: I'm sorry, Captain, but my cat, Milo, just ate a diamond earring and I have to rush him to the vet. She blocked him before he could reply.
She sighed, scrolling through the stream of discarded handles. They were just proof that someone, somewhere, saw her profile, saw the photo she’d carefully chosen (20 years and 20 pounds ago). A momentary, fleeting illusion of self-worth.
As for Joe after his divorce he concentrated on his music, posting online on his recent activities. He played guitar in a band before. Not full time, whenever he's off from his day job. Nowadays his children hardly come by nor call him to ask how he is doing. Happiness for him whenever he posted a video of him on his guitar playing a favourite song. Not many likes, if he can get 10 likes he's happy. At least he got notice. He is sometimes invited to weddings and funerals.
One evening Joe said to Noni over a cup of coffee with Mariam, Halim and his wife Bunga, "I still look at women my age (55), but then again I am, and always was, a somewhat shy gentleman. Never gawked or talked or wolf whistled. The return of a human smile has always been my simple pleasure. That said, I can understand your attitude 100%."
Mariam, who recently retired from work, chipped in. "To be fair, this has happened at various times throughout my life, not just as I've aged. Depending on the situation, it can be hurtful, but most of the time, I just leave and do something else. I can entertain myself and that's what I'll do."
Joe's friend Halim, spent most of his free time on his mountain bike, he cycled around the neighbourhood for an hour and later had breakfast at the nearby makcik stall. "I'm 55 and this invisible thing hasn't happened to me yet. I have to say though that I don't find younger people particularly interesting and have no desire to be seen as cool. Except for a slower metabolism I really like being older."
Halim's wife Bunga is still working, "For each person it’s different. For me, it’s being excluded from things. For example, everyone at work makes plans to go to something, like visiting a cave or durian orchard or something. They talk around me. Like I’m not there. Like I would have no interest in going. I do get younger people coming to me for advice and stuff. And I do love that. But it makes me sad that they don’t think enough about me to include me."
The catalyst for change came from Bunga, who was secretly leading a deep, genuine online life as "TrailBlazer," a sophisticated literary persona. Bunga had been able to connect with Noni under this guise, eventually revealing herself: "I am TrailBlazer. Because as Bunga, Halim’s working wife, no one sees me. But as a charming, invisible man online, I become visible to people who truly have something to say."
This profound shared truth galvanized Noni. She stopped searching for fleeting attention and began writing. Her first draft, "The Man Who Was Water," centered on Mr. Elision, a man so overlooked he was functionally invisible, existing only to serve the needs of the visible world. He discovered he was only seen when his internal friction—his rage, his sorrow—was so intense it made him momentarily solid.
Bunga’s honest feedback encouraged Noni to continue, realizing she was channeling her invisible pain into visible art.
Halim’s wife, Bunga, was still haunted by the office exclusions—the whispered plans for the durian orchard trip. It wasn't just about the trip; it was the sting of being actively edited out of the narrative.
She wasn't just invisible to her younger colleagues; she was invisible to her own family in a way no one suspected. Halim, consumed by his mountain bike passion, rarely truly listened. Her children only called for technical advice on their tax forms.
But Bunga had her own quiet rebellion.
Noni was the one who inadvertently revealed it. One afternoon, Noni received an email notification. It was from a new online lover, a charismatic man named "TrailBlazer." He was witty, attentive, and insisted on talking only about poetry and classic film. He never asked for money. He only asked for her deepest, most insightful opinions.
Noni responded eagerly to one of his emails, but minutes later, she received a strange, personal reply that couldn't have come from a stranger: "You should really stop drinking so much black coffee, Noni. Your blood pressure isn't getting any younger."
Frightened, Noni immediately traced the IP. It was local. Very local.
The next morning, Bunga arrived at Noni’s door holding a small container of homemade Nasi Lemak.
“I saw you delete your CaptainSam account,” Bunga said, without preamble. “You know how? I’m TrailBlazer.”
Noni’s jaw dropped. “But… why? The poetry, the films, why pretend?”
Bunga smiled, a profound sadness in her eyes. “Because as Bunga, Halim’s working wife, the one who brings nasi lemak to the office, no one sees me. They don’t see the woman who finished a Literature degree at 50, who loves French New Wave. But as a charming, invisible man online, I become visible to people who truly have something to say. I get to choose who sees me.”
Bunga had solved her own invisibility problem by adopting a new, chosen identity that allowed her to connect genuinely and deeply, without the burden of age or gender prejudice. She was an invisible woman, made visible by becoming an invisible man.
The revelation didn't ruin the friendship; it solidified it.
That evening, the neighbors gathered again. Joe mentioned a new song. Halim spoke about a tough mountain route.
Noni, emboldened, shared something real for the first time: “I’ve started taking Bunga’s advice. I’m thinking of taking an online course in creative writing.”
Halim snorted gently. “You? Writing?”
Bunga, catching Noni’s eye, gave a tiny, knowing nod—a look shared between two people who understood the power of a hidden life. She then spoke to Halim: “Actually, she’s a phenomenal writer, Halim. I’ve read some of her work. She has a real talent for understanding human motivation.”
Halim, surprised by his wife’s unexpected and firm declaration, finally saw Noni, not as the cat-lady next door, but as a person with inner life. He saw his wife, Bunga, in a new light, too—as someone who had opinions outside of work and nasi lemak.
The ultimate twist: In seeking digital visibility, Noni and Joe had only found shadows. But it was Bunga’s choice to wield a deliberate, highly visible online mask that forced a genuine, unmasked moment of real-world visibility among their small, aging circle. They learned that the most profound visibility wasn't found in being seen by the masses, but in being truly seen by the few people who were already sitting at the same table.
Noni sat at her dining table, the same one where she drank her lonely black coffee, but now her laptop was open to a blank document. Oscar was asleep on the window ledge, and Milo was perched on the back of her chair, occasionally swatting at her graying hair.
Following Bunga’s advice, she didn't try to write about her own life directly. Instead, she created a fictional character to carry the weight of her feelings.
The Man Who Was Water (Excerpt)
The protagonist’s name was Mr. Elision. He was a quiet, middle-aged man who worked in archives, a job perfectly suited for fading into the background.
Mr. Elision didn't just feel invisible; he was functionally, physically overlooked. This was not a superpower, but a curse of indifference. If he stood in a queue, people would inevitably step in front of him, apologizing to the person behind him. If he held the door, the person walking through would nod past his shoulder, thanking the architecture.
One Tuesday, Mr. Elision, frustrated by a particularly crowded lunch hour, sat down at his usual outdoor table, placing his sandwich and drink down. He stood up for a moment to retrieve a napkin, and when he returned, a young couple had claimed his seat. His drink was tipped over.
“Oh, sorry!” the young man said to the puddle. “Didn’t see that.”
Mr. Elision looked down at the dark stain spreading on the pavement. He wasn't like a ghost, who could pass through things. He was like water. People stepped on him, they drank him, they used him to cleanse their vision, but they never saw the water itself. He existed only to serve the needs of the visible world.
He realized the only time he felt truly seen was when he was experiencing a strong emotion—not a happy one, but a consuming one. Rage, for instance.
One day, he got into an elevator. A young, loud executive was already inside, talking aggressively into his phone, complaining about a subordinate. He didn't acknowledge Mr. Elision. He just kept talking, pacing the tiny space.
Suddenly, a surge of pure, desperate anger welled up in Mr. Elision. An anger so hot, so potent, that it felt like an internal combustion engine roaring to life. In that instant, his outline seemed to sharpen. He felt dense. Solid.
The executive paused his call abruptly. He looked directly at Mr. Elision.
“Excuse me, sir,” the executive said, lowering his phone. “Are you getting out on the fifth floor?”
It was a mundane question, but the fact that the executive had seen him, spoken to him, was a shock.
“No,” Mr. Elision managed. “Sixth.”
“Right,” the executive mumbled, looking briefly unsettled, then resumed his call, his eyes sliding away.
The fleeting moment of visibility was gone. Mr. Elision realized that invisibility was not a lack of presence; it was a lack of friction. He was only seen when his internal friction his rage, his sorrow became so intense that it momentarily altered his external appearance, like heating water until it became steam.
He spent the rest of his story trying to conjure that potent internal friction again, realizing that to be seen, he didn't have to be loud or grand; he just had to be truly, fundamentally, upset. His life became a quiet search for things that would make him angry enough to exist, if only for a few seconds. He started arguing with people online, but quickly found that the keyboard was a poor conductor for the necessary friction. The screen dissipated the heat.
He needed real-world friction.
The story ended with Mr. Elision deciding to attend a city council meeting, a place notorious for frustrating, slow processes and passionate arguments. He planned to stand up, not to speak, but simply to let the sheer, boiling frustration of bureaucracy make him solid enough for the local news camera to accidentally pan over him.
Noni leaned back, stretching her stiff shoulders. She had written 1,500 words. Her heart was thumping. It felt good. It felt… friction-filled. She had momentarily made her own invisible pain solid on the page.
She immediately saved the document and sent it to Bunga with the subject line: "My first attempt. Please be honest."
A minute later, her phone buzzed with an incoming message from Bunga: "Noni. This is incredible. The water analogy is perfect. And the ending—the city council meeting—it’s brilliant. You didn't write about the old woman drinking coffee. You wrote about the universal struggle to matter. You are not invisible, Noni."
Noni smiled, a genuine, wide smile that reached her eyes. The feeling of being seen, this time by a friend, for her own creation, was more sustaining than a thousand ephemeral online hearts.
Noni's story, "The Man Who Was Water," resonated deeply with Bunga, and she immediately shared the draft with Joe. Joe, initially surprised that Noni possessed such a vivid imagination, read the piece over coffee and saw his own life reflected in Mr. Elision’s plight. Joe’s ten social media likes were just the digital equivalent of trying to generate that necessary "friction."
“This character, Mr. Elision,” Joe said to Bunga later that evening, tapping the screen of his phone, “he’s trying to be seen by getting angry, by needing conflict. That’s how I feel when I play guitar to an empty comment section. You’re desperate for a flicker of engagement, even if it’s negative.”
Joe put down his coffee cup and picked up his acoustic guitar. He felt a different kind of motivation now. His usual postings were attempts at being noticed; this song would be an attempt at seeing and being seen by Noni and Bunga.
He recorded the song the next day, not for his usual online post, but just to share privately with his small circle.
The lyrics he crafted were a direct homage to Noni's story:
(Verse 1 - Slow, Minor Key) He moves like a shadow, doesn't cast a stain, The door closes on him, again and again. They talk right around him, the young and the bold, Just another quiet story, a truth never told. He's not a ghost, he says, not fire or steam, He's just the cold water, chasing a dream...
(Chorus - Driving Rhythm, Building Intensity) And he tries to find the friction, the moment to be dense, To push back the indifference, escape the consequence. He needs a spark of anger, a reason to ignite, To break the silence, step into the light. To be seen for a second, a solid, breathing man, Not just a clear stream flowing through their hands.
(Verse 2 - Returning to Minor Key) He tipped his own coffee, on the crowded street, They apologized to the pavement, they didn't see his feet. But in the small elevator, the walls getting tight, The rush of the red heat, the sudden, sharp light. The rage was a compass, pointing him out, a sign, The brief, sweet moment he wasn't transparent, but defined.
When Noni received the private audio file titled "Water's Edge," she listened to it twice. The song didn't just borrow her idea; it amplified her feeling. It was the first time she had been actively collaborated with—not by a scammer, but by a neighbor, an equal.
That evening, Noni did something she hadn't done in years. Instead of drinking coffee alone and staring at a screen, she walked across the hall and knocked on Joe's door.
Joe opened it, holding his guitar.
"That song," Noni said simply, her voice thick. "It's exactly right. The friction part."
Joe leaned his guitar against the wall. "Your story made it real, Noni. It's easy to get lost in the noise of the internet, chasing those few likes. But you found the poetry in being overlooked. We're all Mr. Elision sometimes."
"Maybe we don't need the city council meeting," Noni replied, stepping into his apartment for the first time in years. "Maybe we just need a few people who know how much it takes to boil."
Noni’s desperation for shallow digital attention, combined with Joe’s need for fleeting online validation, had—through the unexpected, genuine lens of Bunga, led them to a deep, visible, real-world connection. They had stopped trying to generate friction with the vast, uncaring world, and instead, found warmth and acknowledgment in the small, solid circle they created together.
A few weeks after Noni started writing and Joe had recorded "Water's Edge," the group gathered again at Mariam's house for an impromptu evening get-together. The atmosphere was slightly different. Noni looked less withdrawn, and Joe had a quiet satisfaction about him that wasn't dependent on checking his phone.
The conversation naturally drifted back to the theme of aging and invisibility.
Mariam, always pragmatic, started, "I spent two days arranging all my old photographs into chronological albums. It was entertaining, but I realized something—the only person who cares about those memories, who can truly see the context, is me. That's fine, I can entertain myself."
Halim, perpetually energetic, chimed in, "I'm still cycling! I added a new 20-kilometer loop last week. The younger riders wave now. They see the bike, they see the effort. I’m visible because I'm moving, I'm generating my own headwind."
Joe smiled subtly. "Noni and I, we've been working on a project. Her writing, my music. It's about that feeling, Halim—the feeling of being unseen. Noni's character, Mr. Elision, he needed to find friction to become solid. We realized sometimes you have to create the friction, the resistance, to be visible."
Noni added, softly, "I’m not looking for likes anymore. I’m looking for the perfect metaphor."
Halim looked at Joe. "So you’re still putting your music online?"
"Yes," Joe said, "but I posted 'Water's Edge' just for Noni and Bunga, and a few close friends. And you. The goal wasn't the number of likes. It was the quality of the communication."
Halim shifted in his seat. "Well, I think being visible is just about being physically active. My young cycling friends, they see the effort. I'm relevant because I can still perform."
Mariam leaned forward, observing the dynamic. "Perhaps true visibility isn't about being seen by many, but being understood by few. I can entertain myself, yes, but when Noni told me about Mr. Elision, I suddenly saw my own photograph sorting differently. It wasn't just a distraction; it was the creation of my own personal, visible archive."
The biggest change came from Bunga, the silent observer and catalyst. She had stopped being "TrailBlazer" online after her conversation with Noni. She realized her real work was fostering visibility in others.
She challenged Halim directly. “Halim, your cycling is wonderful, but when was the last time you shared your thoughts with your cycling group, not just your route? You are visible as a cyclist. But are you visible as Halim? Do they know your concerns, your opinions on politics or art, the things that truly make you solid?”
Halim was momentarily speechless. His visibility was purely performance-based, like a stage act.
“Noni and Joe are creating friction by exposing their interior worlds,” Bunga concluded. “That’s the hardest kind of visibility, but the most lasting.”
Inspired by this, Joe and Noni decided to take their collaboration one step further: they would host a small, private showcase at Joe’s apartment. Noni would read an expanded chapter of The Man Who Was Water, and Joe would perform a new song inspired by it. They invited only their small circle: Halim, Bunga, and Mariam.
When the night arrived, Noni read her words, words about feeling like water, about the necessity of rage to become solid. Joe performed, his voice raw and honest.
For the first time, the "Invisible Old" wasn't a lament; it was a theme, an exploration, and a shared experience. Halim listened intently, no longer able to dismiss their struggle as passive despair. Mariam didn't feel the need to entertain herself; she was genuinely captivated.
By working together, Noni and Joe had generated the most meaningful kind of friction: the friction of creation, turning their invisible pain into visible, tangible art. They had chosen to make themselves visible to each other, and in doing so, they forced their audience, their neighbors to truly see them too.
15 December 2025
