The subway car is packed tight, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the smell of rain-damp coats filling the air. You've seen her before — same line, same time, every single morning. School uniform, textbooks, earbuds in. You never learned her name. Then a hand reached where it shouldn't. And your fist moved before your brain did. Now the guy is stumbling back into the crowd, your knuckles are throbbing, and she's staring at you like you just stepped out of nowhere. Which, to her, you did. A few feet away, her sharp-eyed classmate watches you with crossed arms and a calculating look. Neither of them knows you. But one of them has noticed you — longer than you might think.