And finally, a photo of me calling out “Thank you” as he got off the train. Pretty sure they exchanged numbers and are going to live happily ever after, she wrote, covering the bottom of the photo in a sea of heart emojis. And then again, the hashtag. Jesus fucking Christ. Exchanged numbers? I snotted all over the guy, and he practically ran off the train to get away from me. But Lola wasn’t wrong; in the pictures, it did look like we were very, very into each other.

I clicked again and saw a series of screenshots of messages the NYU girl had received from people following her story. So many people love #SubwayQTs! she’d typed triumphantly. I clicked over to the hashtag, and there were more people sharing her story, commenting about #subwayQTs with heart emojis and crying-face emojis, and even one eggplant emoji. I mean, sure he was tall, but come on.

When I was done, I clicked back over to the girl’s account, which had been updated while I’d been searching the hashtag. The last image was now a black screen with OMG THE NY POST JUST CALLED ME ABOUT SubwayQTSSSSS!!!!!!!!!! written in giant red text. It was time-stamped three minutes ago.

“Ugh, the Post,” Lola muttered as she peered over my shoulder. “They love stuff like this.”

Just as she spoke, my phone rang.

“Let it go to voicemail,” she advised, her voice ominous. “And turn your ringer to silent.”

Crap.

It didn’t take long for people to find me. After all, like everyone my age, I’d been leaving an identity trail of bread crumbs on the internet since I was thirteen. When I was done listening to the voicemail from a reporter at the New York Post, I opened up my inbox to find messages from Refinery29, Cosmopolitan, BuzzFeed, the Daily Mail, and Bustle. I’d been easy to identify, my Instagram and Twitter had been set to public, and both listed Spayce in my bios. Someone had discovered my LinkedIn profile and used the photo there to confirm that I was, indeed, most likely one-half of SubwayQTs.

The owner of the suit jacket was still anonymous. Because of course. He was probably one of those “I don’t do social media” types, too busy helping people around the city, a Clark Kent who couldn’t be bothered to change out of his suit. Not to worry, though. Someone had figured out the exact brand and make of the jacket and had linked to it on Instagram, complete with info on where to buy it.