No one said anything. No one had to. He could see it in the slight narrowing of eyes, the polite curiosity, the way people shifted just slightly to listen better. He had become the man making a fuss. The scene. The problem.
Never mind that he had spoken in measured tones. Never mind that he’d waited. Explained. Asked. He wasn’t wrong—but in that moment, he felt foolish for trying to be right. He turned forward slowly, deliberately. His shoulders locked tight. His mouth dry.
His pulse beat hot in his ears. A flush of embarrassment crept up his neck—not because he had lost control, but because once again, someone had decided his discomfort wasn’t worth fixing. And now he could feel it — the subtle shift in the carriage.
People staring. Quiet, sidelong glances from behind books and laptops. No one said anything, but he knew that his voice had cut through the room, and now he was part of the scene. The guy who spoke up. The guy who made things awkward.