Flight Anxiety

Sarah

The stale air of the plane cabin hits me as I step aboard, my eyes immediately seeking out our row.

I settle into my seat, hyper-aware of Matthew's rigid posture next to me. We are off to our honeymoon.

I sneak glances at his face. He is looking out the window, breathing a bit harder than normal.

The engines roar to life, and I feel the plane lurch forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Matthew's hands gripping the armrests, his knuckles white.

"Are you okay, Matthew?" I ask softly, unable to keep the concern from my voice.

"Fine," he snaps, not looking at me. But I can see the tension in every line of his body, the slight tremor in his hands.

He must really hate flying.

My own hands itch to cover his, to offer comfort. But I know he'd only recoil from my touch. Still, I can't help but feel a flutter of determination. He may push me away, but I won't give up on us so easily.

As the plane lifts off, leaving the ground behind, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Whatever happens on this trip, whatever walls I have to scale to reach him, I'll find a way. I have to believe there's still hope for us, buried beneath all this pain and resentment. I just need to be patient, to keep trying until I break through.

I force a smile. "You know, I hear the in-flight movie is a romantic comedy. Maybe we'll get some pointers."

Matthew's head snaps toward me, his dark eyes flashing with cold disdain. "Ah yes, because our relationship is just one misunderstanding away from a happily ever after," he snarls, his words dripping with sarcasm.

I turn away, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. Be mean all you want, Matthew. I'm not giving up.

I steal another glance at him from the corner of my eye. His jaw is clenched, gaze fixed firmly ahead.

The soft ding of the seat belt sign turning off breaks through my trance. I watch as other passengers begin to stir, some reaching for overhead compartments, others striking up quiet conversations.

Suddenly, the plane lurches, a violent tremor rattling through the cabin. My stomach drops as we hit a pocket of turbulence, the aircraft bucking like a wild horse. I instinctively grip my seat, my knuckles turning white.

Matthew's reaction is immediate. His entire body goes rigid, his hands clamping down on the armrests with such force I can see the tendons straining beneath his skin. His breathing is even more shallow and rapid, eyes wide with barely concealed panic.

I've never seen him like this before – so utterly vulnerable, stripped of his usual controlled demeanor. It's like looking at a completely different person, and my heart aches at the sight.

Without thinking, I reach out, gently laying my hand over his white-knuckled grip. "It's okay," I murmur, my voice barely audible above the rumble of the engines. "Just turbulence. We're safe."

For a split second, I feel his fingers twitch beneath mine as if he might accept the comfort. But then his eyes snap to mine, blazing with fury.

"How the fuck would you know?" he snarls, yanking his hand away as if burned. "Are you the damn pilot?"

The venom in his voice makes me flinch, but I refuse to back down completely. "No, but…"

He scoffs, a harsh sound that cuts through the air between us. "Save your concern for someone who actually wants it."

I bite my lip, fighting back the urge to snap back. This isn't about winning an argument; it's about reaching him. Even as he lashes out, I can see the fear lingering in the tightness around his eyes, the way his breathing hasn't quite evened out.

"Fine," I say, my voice steady despite the hurt blooming in my chest. "I won't touch you again. But I'm here, Matthew. Whether you like it or not."

He turns away, jaw clenched, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands as another bout of turbulence shakes the plane.

My mind wanders to happier times. The way his eyes used to crinkle when he laughed, genuinely laughed, at one of my terrible jokes. Back when he thought I was his friend.

Without thinking, I reach for his hand again. My fingers curl around his. I expect him to jerk away again, to snap at me, but he doesn't. He remains still, frozen as if caught between fight and flight.

"It's okay," I murmur, my thumb tracing small circles on the back of his hand. "Just let me hold your hand for a minute."

He closes his eyes then, and a deep furrow forms between his brows. I watch as the tension in his shoulders slowly subsides, his breathing becoming less ragged. His hand remains in mine, neither pulling away nor fully accepting the comfort.

"Why?" he asks suddenly, so quietly I almost miss it. "Why do you keep trying?"

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to pour out my heart. "Because I love you. I know you don't believe me, but I will never stop saying it."

Matthew's eyes remain closed, but I feel the slight pressure of his fingers tightening around mine. It's not forgiveness, not even close. But in this fragile moment, suspended above the clouds, it feels like the first crack in the wall between us.

I don't dare move, afraid that even the slightest shift might shatter this fragile connection.

Instead, I focus on the warmth of his hand, the slight tremor that runs through it with each bout of turbulence.

"I really hate flying," he murmurs.

"I noticed," I say softly, allowing a small smile to tug at my lips. "But you know, you are more likely to die in a car accident than a plane crash."

Matthew lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Who said that?"

I shrug. "Statistics."

He turns back to the window, his expression guarded but no longer icy. The tension in his jaw eases slightly.

He takes my hand off him, and I mourn the loss. It was nice while it lasted. "I need a drink," he says.

"Yeah, me too," I say.

I lean back as he rings for the flight attendant. This honeymoon trip is not going to be easy. I can already tell.