“Y’alright?” the man next to you prods in his deep, low tone. He’s wearing a backwards cap and has a face mask on.

He probably noticed your death grip on the armrests as soon as the plane started taxiing. It feels like your knuckles squeak when you force yourself to let go, little half moons dug into the fabric.

“I don’t like flying,” you admit.

“Deep breath,” he instructs, stern but soft. “In through the nose, out through the mouth… that’s it love.”