The coffee hit the floor before I even realised my hand was shaking.

It burst open on the bus’s rubber mat with a wet slap, and the brown tide rushed toward a woman’s white sneakers. She jerked her feet up just in time, clutching the pole, eyes flashing—then she saw my face and the anger softened into something else: recognition, or maybe pity.

“Sorry,” I blurted, already crouching with a fistful of tissues that weren’t enough for anything.

“It’s fine,” she said too quickly, and I heard the tremor she was trying to hide. The bus lurched forward, the overhead lights flickered, and for a moment the whole vehicle felt like it was blinking at us—pretending not to see.