Claire was having a good day.

She had her favorite playlist in, a new iced coffee in hand, and managed to snag the last empty double seat on the city bus—not next to a snorer, not sticky, and no mystery smells. A rare jackpot.

As the bus rolled along, she sipped her coffee and started daydreaming. It was that kind of warm, zoning-out-in-public moment where everything feels peaceful.

Until she felt it.

Something wet.

Cold.

Spreading.

She slowly looked down.

Her coffee lid wasn’t on right.

The entire bottom half of her shirt was soaked in caramel iced coffee. Worse—it had seeped straight through her jeans and into the seat. It looked like she’d had the most unfortunate bladder emergency in recorded history.

Claire panicked.

She grabbed napkins. Too few. She dabbed. Made it worse. The coffee smell was now aggressively strong and sweet, drawing attention.

Then came the worst part.

Her stop was next.

She stood up—and the wet seat made a squelch.

The guy across the aisle looked up, saw the dark stain on the seat, then the one on her pants, then met her eyes with a face full of tragic understanding.

Claire didn’t speak. She just got off the bus like a Victorian ghost, walking fast, shoulders tight, jeans clinging in all the wrong places, the sound of her squishy sneakers marking each step of her public humiliation.

From that day on, she always double-checked the lid.