Page 16 of Wreckage

Ihated flying. I hated everything about it: the unnatural way the plane lifted into the sky, the tight cabin, the constant sound of the engines, and the way the world outside the window looked so far away.

I wished I could have taken a bus or a train or, better yet, warped home instantly like a sci-fi character.

Flying had never been something I handled well.

As a kid, I could at least curl into my mom’s arms and let her soft voice soothe me, let her hands rub slow circles against my back until the fear faded enough for me to breathe properly.

But that was years ago.

Now, I was an adult. My mom was gone. Things had changed drastically, and I only had myself.

I squeezed my eyelids shut, trying to focus on my breathing, trying to convince myself we weren’t just a flimsy metal shell cutting through the sky at hundreds of miles per hour, one malfunction away from falling to our deaths.

The turbulence worsened, jostling the plane like we were caught in an invisible salt shaker. The seatbelt dug into my lap, and my nails pressed so hard into the armrest that I knew my fingers would ache later.

A shudder ripped through the plane, and my pulse skyrocketed.

I couldn’t breathe.

My lungs felt small. I was suffocating on my fear.

Each breath came too fast and too shallow, blurring my vision at the edges. My heart pounded against my ribs loudly, drowning out Troy and Adrian's low hum of conversation.

The book in my lap slid to the floor, but I couldn’t reach for it. My mind was too full of images—of flames swallowing the wings, of metal bending and breaking apart in the sky, of the ground rushing up to meet us.

My fingers trembled. My chest ached. I barely registered the warmth of tears sliding down my cheeks. The only thing I could focus on was the thought that this was it. That in the next few moments, there’d be screaming, a sudden drop, and then?—

“Elena.”

The voice was soft and gentle in a way I wasn’t used to.

Not from him, at least.

Troy.

I barely heard him over the pounding in my ears, but then he sat beside me. I forced my eyes to move, to find his face, to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

Why was he here?

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out except a short, shaky breath. His gaze roamed over my face, his brows knit together.

“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice calm and steady. “You have to breathe. You’re going to make it worse.”

I tried, but my lungs wouldn’t cooperate. My chest rose too fast, my breathing stalled, I trembled, and then my chest shuddered again. All on repeat.

Troy reached forward, his hand hovering near mine like he wasn’t sure if he should touch me. Finally, he did, his warmth, the action altogether, startling me. Troy never touched me. Neither of them did. Not even so much as a high-five.

“You’re panicking,” he said gently, an uncharacteristic way to speak to me, his hand resting over mine. “You need to slow it down.”

I clenched my fists, shaking my head. I couldn’t.

I felt weightless and heavy at the same time like my body was caught in some horrible in-between space where nothing was real except the fear. The walls closing in. The heat. I was hot. God, I was so hot…

“Elena.” His voice dipped lower, softer. “Look at me.”

I forced my gaze up again.

His green eyes held mine, steady and unwavering.

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