Fifteen minutes later I stopped at a flight of moldy stairs that led down to the subway station.
I made my way down the aged steps, trying not to step on the little mice that scurried by my feet while also making as little contact with random strangers as possible.
The smell of rusting steel, faint cannabis and straight sewage filled my nostrils, burning my nose hairs.
I pulled up the neck of my shirt to my nose like a gas mask, desperately trying to filter out the smell.
As I maneuvered through the crowd, I noticed that every one looked as drained as me. They all wore the same expression—blank and vacant—as they stared down at their phones, the blue light washing their faces.
The sight sent shivers down my spine, forcing me to look away.
I walked to my train section with my gaze fixed on the ground, feeling weirdly naked without my phone.
I stopped and leaned against a cold cement pillar, looking up at the tv screen.
BRINGEWOOD- 5 MINS
I gave the tv screen a nod of acknowledgement (gesturing to objects now? I must be losing it.) and finally pulled out my phone from my back pocket.
I mindlessly scrolled through notifications that weren't there, then opened TikTok, finding a little entertainment in my tiny internet box.
I swear phones are time machines—ten scrolls later, the train tracks groaned as the train rolled in.
The train screeched to a halt and the doors fizzed open. I glanced up, the car was filled to the brim with people.
I groaned and gazed at my phone.
9%.
Of course.
I sighed and locked my screen, shoving the phone back into my pocket and stepped onto the crowded train.
I've never had much sympathy for sardines, but this experience made me think otherwise.
I pushed past walls of strangers—pressed shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath. Someone's backpack dug into my ribs, and another person's elbow hovered dangerously close to my face.
I swam through the sea of randos and found an air bubble in the middle of the car.
It was still way too cramped to sit, so I grabbed the handlebar above me and decided to thug through twenty minutes of standing in a humid train car.
How lovely.
Not even five minutes later, my dopamine-addicted brain started to shrivel from understimulation.
Look, I know my phone is at 9%—but I was experiencing withdrawals, and it's not like anything interesting was happening. Plus, I could just hook it up to my power bank.
I reached into my messenger bag, plugged my phone into the charger, and began feeding my brain literal internet slop.
It was all giggles and shit, nourishing my neurons with stupid, low-key degenerate memes.
(They were satire. Don't come for me.)
I was laughing and giggling to myself, probably making the rest of the passengers uncomfortable, then one of my stupid pins popped off my bag.
Because I don't litter—and that pin is one of my most prized possessions— I bent over to pick it up.
As I looked for my pin, my hands and eyes darting around to find it, I felt a presence behind me.
It felt… off.
But because I don't assume the worst, I brushed it off as just another passenger looking for a space to stand.
My eyes locked onto my pin. I grabbed it—
—and before I could straighten up, something cold and heavy pressed against me.
A hand.
On me.
My blood ran cold.
For a split second, my brain refused to catch up, scrambling for excuses.
Accident.
Crowded train.
Misstep.
Anything but what I already knew.
Then the hand lingered.
I immediately shot up and smacked the hand away. I turned, my gaze locking onto my violator.
He looked around forty and was pathetically clutching the hand I hit, like he was the victim.
When I saw that, something in me snapped.
"DON'T TOUCH ME, YOU SICK FUCK!"
My voice sliced through the train like a knife.
Conversations died instantly.
Heads snapped up, watching the scene with concern.
The man's eyes darted across the car. He trembled under the stares.
"I—I didn't…" he stuttered, backing up half a step.
"Don't play dumb—you put your hands on me!" I said, loud and clear.
My hands trembled, my heart slamming against my rib cage, but I held my ground.
The creep opened his mouth to defend himself further when a pale, skinny hand rested on his shoulder, nails digging into his skin.
He went still.
"Didn't anyone teach you to keep your hands to yourself?" Said a deep voice from behind, his grip tightening further.
The creep winced in pain, "Look, look..I'm sorry", his voice shaky and pitiful.
The train came to a screeching halt at next the station.
The guy with the pale hand, shoved him off the train.
"Pathetic creep," he muttered, just loud enough for the perv to hear, before the doors fizzed shut.
The guy turned to face me.
He was thin, freakishly tall, wearing an oversized light blue zip-up hoodie over a rumpled white T-shirt that screamed in bold black letters: "I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE."
Black baggy jeans, scruffed-up white Nikes completing the look.
I looked up at him, my gaze locking onto his pale face.
His tired, jet-black eyes met mine, shaggy black hair falling a little over his face.
"Sorry 'bout that weirdo," he said, voice low. "You good tho?"
His eyes, though dull, held obvious concern.
The whole train watched with anticipation, waiting on my answer.
I took a breath, my body easing slightly. My brain registering that the danger was gone.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm good. Just a little shaken." my voice a bit shaky but firm.
The passengers let out a sigh of relief and went back to chatting and what not.
The tension slowly dissipating.
The blue hoodie guy nodded in acknowledgement, but his gaze still lingered on my features.
His face twisted into a slight frown.
He looked as if he was trying to piece together a puzzle or something.
A few moments later, his eyebrows went up slightly, like he had figured something out.
"Hey, do you go to 'Elmer Collins highschool'?" he asked.