ADVERTISEMENT
I was terrified—of myself, of whatever was hidden inside me. But I also saw something new inside his fear: he wasn’t going to let me break.
“Why don’t you sleep?” I asked.
One night the power went out. In the darkness, for the first time, I reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.
I whispered, “What if I’m afraid?”
He answered like a vow:
“Then I’ll keep watching until morning.”
And in that same darkness, he revealed another secret.
He was sick. His time was short.
“I didn’t want to leave you alone,” he said, “in this house… in this world.”
My eyes filled with tears.
He shook his head.
“No. I trusted you—with my greatest fear.”
Something strange happened after that. Fear became routine. Routine became a kind of safety.
And then he collapsed.
The next morning, there was no chair, no footsteps, no watchful silence. Just sirens, and the hospital.
The white walls felt like a prison. The machine beeps, the smell of medicine, the hurried shoes—everything made my fear louder. He lay unconscious, older and more worn than I’d ever seen him.
A doctor pulled me aside.
ADVERTISEMENT
