Flying from Seattle to Charlotte for my cousin’s wedding was supposed to be a relief, but it turned into an unexpected test of patience. The flight began with subtle taps against the back of my seat, growing into a persistent rhythm that was hard to ignore. I glanced back, expecting to see a child, only to find a young man in a hoodie, lost in his own world with AirPods in.
Politely, I leaned back and smiled. No response. I tried a firmer approach with a half-turn and a direct “Excuse me?” Still, he remained oblivious, as if my seat were merely an obstacle in his day.
I discreetly mentioned it to a flight attendant during the drink service. She assured me she would handle it, but her attempt to address the issue was met with a nonchalant denial from the man, claiming innocence despite the evident disruption.
The situation persisted, and even the passenger in the window seat beside him seemed uncomfortable, casting wary glances as though aware of a deeper issue but hesitant to intervene.
An hour before landing, unable to endure it any longer, I stood up and confronted him. The passenger in the window seat then revealed something that shifted my perspective entirely.
“He’s going through withdrawals,” he whispered solemnly, explaining that the young man had lost his medication and was struggling to cope.
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