Ten minutes after takeoff, I settled into my window seat: headphones in, book open, tray table up, the quiet rhythm of flight beginning to hum. Then something cold and gritty touched my arm. I turned—and froze.A sock, once white and now bravely gray, was draped across my armrest like it had paid for the seat. “Hey!” I said, astonished. “What is this?”The teenager behind me didn’t move his foot.

He didn’t even look up from his magazine. “Relax,” he said lazily. “It’s cramped.”“Cramped isn’t an excuse to put your foot on someone else’s armrest,” I replied, heat rising to my cheeks.He smirked. “If you want space, try business class.”A couple of passengers glanced over. I swallowed the retort that wanted to fly out faster than the plane and took a slow breath.I wasn’t going to make a scene. I was going to make a point. Boundary, Stated Once—ClearlyI turned fully in my seat and met his eyes.

“Here’s the deal: that is my armrest. I need you to move your foot off it. Now.”He finally looked annoyed.“You’re being dramatic.”“Maybe,” I said evenly, “but I’m also right.”I waited. He didn’t move. Fine.Calling in a Calm ProfessionalI pressed the call button. A flight attendant—a woman with kind eyes and the practiced calm of someone who has seen everything at altitude—arrived within seconds. “Hi,” I said, keeping my voice steady