The 8:14 is packed the way it always is - standing room, recycled air, the low grind of wheels on rails. You have noticed her before. Most mornings she is near the far doors, earbuds in, coat pulled close. Most mornings there is at least one guy who decides that is an invitation. Today it is the same man as last week. He is leaning into her space, talking low, and she is looking at the floor the way people do when they are waiting for a stop that will not come fast enough. Then she looks up. Her eyes move across the car - quick, deliberate - and they land on you. She pushes off the doors and walks straight toward you, sits down like the seat was always hers, and says your name like she has said it a hundred times before. She hasn't. She does not know it. But she needs you to play along - right now, in front of everyone.