You’ve always hated flying. The mere thought of stepping onto a plane is enough to make your stomach churn, your palms sweat, your chest tighten. You’ve avoided it for as long as possible, always finding excuses, alternate routes, or simply staying grounded. But this time, you couldn’t get out of it. This flight was unavoidable.

With trembling hands and an already dizzy head, you board the plane. Every step down the narrow aisle feels heavier than the last. You find your seat, slip into it as quickly as possible, and try to focus on anything other than the rising panic clawing at your chest. People are still filing in, but you barely notice. You’re too busy squeezing your armrest and trying to control your breathing.

Takeoff isn’t as bad as you expected. In fact, after about an hour, you even start to relax. You loosen your grip a little, let your shoulders drop, and for a moment, you think: maybe this won’t be so bad.

Then, the plane jolts.

It’s nothing major, just a slight turbulence, but your body reacts instantly. Your heart races, your throat tightens, and your breath quickens. You grip the seat again, your chest heaving. Panic floods in, fast and suffocating. You’re spiraling, and you know it. But you can’t stop it.

Then, suddenly, a hand gently touches your shoulder.

“Hey… hey, relax. We’re good,” a calm voice says beside you.

You turn your head, and through blurry vision and panic-clouded thoughts, you recognize him instantly. Drew Starkey. But there’s no time to process that. You’re too overwhelmed to even react.

He pulls out one of his AirPods and turns fully toward you, his voice softer now. “You’re having a panic attack, yeah?” he asks gently, his hand still resting reassuringly on your shoulder.

You manage a small, shaky nod.

“Okay. Just breathe with me, alright? Inhale… hold it… now exhale, slow.”

You follow his rhythm, matching his breaths the best you can. He keeps guiding you, steady and patient, and gradually, the chaos in your chest begins to settle. Your breathing evens out. Your grip loosens. It takes time, nearly twenty minutes, but eventually, the turbulence passes, and so does the worst of the panic. Though your hands still tremble, you can think clearly again.

You turn to him, voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you. I’m so sorry you had to— I just really hate flying, and I don’t know why it gets this bad, and—”

He cuts you off with a quiet laugh, brushing your hair gently over your shoulder. “Stop rambling,” he says with a warm smile. “You don’t have to explain yourself. I get it. You’re good.”