She was late again.

Not the kind of late that matters. Just the kind that means she'd be rushing the rest of the day, catching up, apologizing, feeling behind before the day had even really started.

The platform was crowded. She found a spot near the edge, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Scrolling without seeing. Emails. News. Someone's vacation photos. None of it landing.

She was tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix.

The bench beside her was empty except for one thing.

A newspaper. Folded once. Slightly creased. Left behind.

She almost ignored it. Almost sat down without looking. But something—she wouldn't be able to name it later—made her glance over.

On the front page, a single question:

Who were you before the world told you who to be?

She stopped scrolling.

Read it once. Set her coffee down, read it again.

The train arrived. People pushed past. She stayed on the bench.