Stand Behind The Yellow Line
Every morning at 7:12, the train slid into the station without a sound, as if it were embarrassed to be noticed.
People were already lined up along the yellow strip, though no one stood on it. Shoes hovered a careful inch behind the paint — loafers, boots, a child’s light-up sneakers that blinked silently with each anxious shift. No one spoke about the spacing, but newcomers learned quickly. The first time you stepped too close, you felt it: not a touch, not quite a look, just a tightening in the air, like a held breath shared by strangers.
