The woman with the lanyard

She had a supermarket lanyard. Sainsbury's, maybe. Didn't clock the name because I was too busy not existing — hood up, staring at my phone like it was a legal document I was required to read. And she just leaned across the aisle and told him. Quiet. Not loud about it. "He's trying to read." Like it was obvious. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to defend a stranger on a bus.

I've been thinking about it all day. Not the bloke who stood up — the one who grabbed my arm and said Tesco this and BBC that and started describing my own bit back to me like a football match recap. He meant well. I know he meant well. But my face did something I didn't authorise and I couldn't stop it. Jaw clenched so hard I thought a tooth might crack. And then she just — she cut through it. One sentence. He sat down.

The new bit is about her. Obviously. That's the real story — not the loud bloke, him I can handle, I've beenhandleable my whole life. Her I don't know what to do with. Someone saw me wanting to be invisible and they made it happen. That's not supposed to happen to me. I'm the one who makes people laugh. I'm not the one who gets protected.