Before, I would’ve said no. I would’ve invented an excuse, claimed work was too busy, blamed money, anything to avoid the risk and the anxiety.
But something in me had changed over the last year. I didn’t want my condition to shrink my world until it was just me and my safe kitchen.
So I said yes.
At the airport, everything smelled like cinnamon pretzels, coffee, and fryer oil. People carried open containers like the whole place was one big picnic.
Sam walked slightly in front of me, not blocking me, just creating space. He’d already told the gate agent I had severe allergies. He’d already requested pre-boarding so we could wipe down our seats.
When we sat, he handed me disinfectant wipes without a word. I wiped the tray table, the armrests, the seatbelt buckle. It felt excessive and necessary at the same time.
A man in the row behind us opened a bag of mixed nuts. The smell hit me like an alarm, sharp and immediate.
My chest tightened—not full reaction, but fear, that instant body memory of the last time I ignored a warning.
Sam noticed my face change. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Want me to talk to a flight attendant?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”