Just before landing, I felt it: a drip. Then another.

Suddenly, I realized what I had done. I left my refillable water bottle in the overhead bin when I stowed my carry on.

Unfortunately, my laptop is in that bag too. It’s a personal device, but absolutely critical for this work trip. If that bottle spilled up there, I had just spent the last hour marinating my bag, and laptop, in filtered regret. Probably soaking whoever was in 14C along the way. In my panic, it was impossible to decide which outcome was worse.

I had no idea how long it might have been happening. AirPods in, noise cancellation maxed, podcast on. I’d been completely checked out from the physical world. That rattling during climb-out? The shifts during cruise? Could have been anything. Could have been the opening act to a disaster movie, panning out in a fairly terrible way.

My mind played out the scenario in the worst way. The mistakes might have started small but they sure compounded fast: water spilling into my bag, soaking my laptop, saturating the overhead bin, and then raining down onto some unwary seatmates.

I contemplated pressing the call button. Considered the possibility of confessing my sins to the flight attendant. Airlines don’t have jails, right? I was frozen though, couldn’t do it. I couldn’t quite bring myself to owning this particular brand of inevitable shame.

My heart began racing as I imagined a soaked plane interior. A simple mistake would become catastrophe. I was going to be “that water bottle guy from our flight”. Taxiing was a temporary reprieve because we had to stay buckled.

We arrived at the gate. I braced. I expected a spray of water. I was stuck in the window seat, unable to delay it any more. Someone else opened the bin. I held my breath.

But, wait a minute. Nothing. No spill. No reactions. No wet jackets. When I finally pulled out my own bag, it was completely dry. Bottle still sealed, still full of water. How? Why? Not important. I didn’t investigate. I grabbed my bag and walked off like I had somewhere to be. Psychosomatic disasters don’t require further analysis.

Five minutes of pure dread for a water bottle that committed no crime.