This review was written in that dim corridor of days between the 22nd and 28th of October, 2025—a week blurred by the hiss of oxygen and the slow drip of IV lines at Bellona Nursing Home & Diagnostic Centre Pvt. Ltd. I was then a reluctant guest of illness, recovering from an infection that had seized both lungs and kidneys. Forgive, therefore, the infrequent tremor in my language; it bears the soft delirium of painkillers and the fragile clarity of a mind half-dreaming between fever and thought. But Slime does that annoying, delightful thing some tales do—it pretends to be campy horror and then quietly slips a mirror into your hands.
In this novel, Steel’s protagonist, Antonia Adams, grows up in a home where neglect isn’t an event but an atmosphere—a constant, invisible fog. Steel, who has always written trauma with surprising tenderness, takes Antonia’s early childhood and crafts a portrait of survival that is both heartbreaking and quietly triumphant.
Antonia’s mother abandons the family early; her father, an emotionally absent writer, retreats into his own bitterness. The little girl learns the trick most children in loveless households master: becoming invisible to stay safe. Steel uses this psychological invisibility as the novel’s central metaphor.
Antonia is present but unseen, living but unnoticed, human but unacknowledged. And yet, she absorbs the world with a rare sensitivity—like someone listening through walls for evidence of tenderness.
As she grows older, Antonia discovers film—not as an escape, but as a revelation. Movies don’t just entertain her; they show her the possibility of lives built on connection, passion, and choice. Through film, she discovers a world where people pay attention to one another. Steel cleverly uses this obsession as both a narrative and emotional pivot. Antonia begins building a sense of self not through the love she never received, but through the ones she witnesses on screen.
The novel’s structure reflects Antonia’s evolution. In the beginning, the prose is quieter, edged with loneliness. As Antonia moves into adulthood, Steel lets her narrative voice widen, brighten, and gain texture.
Antonia becomes a behind-the-scenes force in Hollywood—competent, intelligent, observant, and still comfortable blending into the background. But Steel knows invisibility can become both shield and prison.
Antonia’s refusal to step into the spotlight is less about humility and more about the old fear that visibility leads to pain.
Enter the love interest—but in a Steel book, romance is rarely the point; it’s the catalyst. Antonia’s partnership with a filmmaker pulls her gently into the light. Not with fireworks, but with steady recognition.
Someone sees her—and not just her talent, but her. Steel leans into emotional subtlety here, focusing on trust, vulnerability, and the terrifying beauty of being truly known.
The novel also deals with the theme of choosing visibility. Antonia has built a life where she can fade when she needs to, but Steel urges her to consider whether invisibility is self-protection or self-erasure. That conflict gives the novel its tension — not dramatic confrontations but internal reckonings.
Steel’s writing here has a softness that fits Antonia’s worldview. Even the painful moments aren’t sensationalised. Antonia’s childhood trauma isn’t written for shock; it’s written with empathy. Her success isn’t triumphalist; it’s tender. The quietness of the book becomes its strength.
By the final chapters, Antonia steps gradually into a life that feels chosen rather than endured.
The transformation is subtle but powerful—she goes from being unnoticed to being self-known. Steel doesn’t give her a dramatic rebirth; she gives her a gentle unfolding.
In Invisible, Steel reminds us that sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is simply allow themselves to be seen.
And the novel, with all its quiet resilience, becomes a soft anthem for anyone who ever learnt to disappear to survive — and is now learning to return.