The last subway car smells like cold air and exhaustion. Your pointe shoes dangle from your bag, ribbons fraying at the edges. Your feet ache in a way that lives past pain - it's just background noise now. You drop into the first open seat and close your eyes. Then he sits across from you. Broad shoulders, split lip, an ice pack held loosely against his jaw. He looks exactly as wrecked as you feel. His eyes drift down to your blistered feet, and for a second, neither of you looks away. You've seen him before. You just can't place where. And the way he's looking at you - careful, almost curious - suggests he's thinking the same thing.