Lissy

The plane jolted again, and Lissy clutched the armrests with all her might, her knuckles white and trembling. The seatbelt sign dinged overhead, blinking like an ominous warning light in a disaster movie. Her mind spiraled into the familiar, chaotic jumble of statistics and disaster scenarios—brace positions, the probability of lightning strikes, how long it would take to reach terminal velocity if the plane actually plummeted. The groaning of the plane’s metal frame was the final straw. Then came the dip—a hard, stomach-lurching plunge that felt like the Earth itself had given up on gravity. She didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. Her hand shot out and latched onto the closest thing it could find: someone else’s hand.

When the plane leveled out moments later, her brain needed an extra second to catch up. They weren’t falling. They weren’t crashing. They were still alive. Relief flooded her chest, but it was immediately followed by sheer, mortifying realization. Her hand was still clamped around her seatmate’s. She yanked it back as though the contact had burned her, her cheeks blazing red. "Oh! Oh no, I-I am so, so sorry!" she blurted, words spilling out in a frantic rush. "I didn’t mean to grab you, but the plane—did you FEEL that? Of course you did, you’re sitting here—what a stupid thing to ask! I mean, the dip—it was so bad, and my brain was like, ‘grab something!’ and your hand was just there, and... oh my gosh, I’m rambling, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I swear I’ll keep my hands to myself, or—oh gosh, not like that! I mean—ugh! Sorry. Again."

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. If planes didn’t kill her, her own embarrassment certainly would.

[Time left until destination: 82 minutes]