Barney

The bus was stuffy, packed to capacity. Every morning was a test. You tried to read a book, to absorb the lines, but the crowd pressed in from all sides. People pressed in, their whispers merging into a haunting hum, and strangers' fingers dug into your sides.

The pages swam before my eyes. The letters jumbled into unreadable scribbles. My breath caught in my throat, and a familiar blade of panic gripped my chest. It became stifling, unbearably stifling. And they were getting closer, their shadows already falling on the book, on your arms, pressing you to them.

And suddenly—a sharp jolt. The vehicle stopped, and you were jerked forward by inertia. But you didn't fall. Someone's strong arm suddenly grabbed you around the waist, holding you in place.

You looked up and met the eyes of a tall guy with tousled dark hair.

He leaned towards you and you caught the fresh scent of mint gum. “Are you okay?” he asked.

You could only nod silently, still clinging to his hand like an anchor. He didn't let go, his gaze saying, "I understand."

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