Every morning I ride the subway which means I’m subjected to what I like to call the “subway couples.” They come in all shapes, sizes, and colors, and they all have one thing in common, my hatred. They’re always holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes, giggling, kissing, mocking me with their happiness. Yes, I know I might sound bitter, but c’mon it’s the morning time, we’re all tired and we’re all on the same cramped subway cart struggling to make it through this commute. But a seat opens up, he offers it to her, but she’d rather stand, holding on to his arm for balance instead of a pole or a rail. Please do me a favor and take that rom-com bullshit somewhere out of my sight for the time being. The thing is, secretly, we all dream of being a cute subway couple on display so everyone can see our happiness, unaware that a bitter single person is watching, contemplating murder-suicide. I know little about the subway couple outside the subway, their lives, their relationship, their feelings, but in that moment they look so happy together and in that moment I am so goddamn resentful of that.