Ahhh yes, the subway, our daily group therapy session with no therapist, no exit strategy, and a suspicious stain on the seat next to you. It’s where hope goes to hold its breath and humanity shows up in all its crumb-covered glory. Every screech of the rails is basically the city whispering: “Good luck, champ.”

There’s something poetic about it, though a thousand strangers pretend this is fine. The lights flicker, someone sighs dramatically, and you begin to wonder if you’re starring in a social experiment run by caffeine and despair.

Every stop feels like a raffle: will peace board, or will chaos stay seated? You clutch the pole like it’s holy, praying the train gods bless you with a little mercy and a big ol’ “Next stop, please.”

Because down here, survival isn’t about speed, it’s about who gets off first.