Hope, Fear and Love A Brutal War Within.

 

I wanted to call her so bad, you know? I wanted to hear her voice, just... just one word from her. But every time I picked up the phone, my hand froze. I’d stare at the number, thumb hovering over the call button, heart pounding like it would break through my chest. I’d type out the words, long messages, pouring my soul into them... and then I’d watch them sit there, unsent. Because what if—what if the conversation didn’t go the way I hoped? What if I wasn’t ready for the answer?

I thought about asking her, “Baby, should I wait?” But even that felt... risky. The hope of her reply—it was killing me, slowly. (Chuckles bitterly) Yeah. That’s it. The hope.

“What is?” he asked me once.

I told him. “Hope, fear, and love—at war with each other. That’s what it is. See, hope—hope’s got this voice, soft and warm. Hope tells me, ‘Maybe it’ll all be better when she gets back. Maybe then you can tell her about all the failures you faced, the victories you won. Maybe you can dream again—of kids playing in a house filled with laughter. A mother with stories of faraway places, and a father with stories of home.’ Sounds absurd, right? But hope... hope feeds you those dreams. And then fear—it whispers back, cruel and sharp. Fear says, ‘She’s forgotten you. She’s moved on.’ Fear asks me the questions I can’t answer—‘Is there still an us? When she lands, will there still be an us?’”

(A pause, his voice breaking) Those questions—they ache. They tear you apart from the inside. Fear told me to delete the messages, to erase her number before I could ever hit send or call. Fear told me to stop waiting because... because maybe the fire’s already dead.

And love? (Laughs softly, bitterly) Love had the cruelest voice of all. Love didn’t whisper; it shouted. Love asked me, “Why do you let your heart be a land for storms? Why do you plant seeds in soil that only erodes? Why do you think you deserve the flowers when the farmer—you—forgot how to tend to the garden?” And then love gave me its verdict: “Your heart is infertile. You are undeserving of love.”

(Tears begin to fall; he doesn’t bother wiping them)

I sat there, tears falling into my drink, and I downed the last sip like it might drown the ache. I got up, ready to leave, when someone asked me, “So that’s it? What did you do? I mean... what decision did you make?”

(He pauses, staring ahead, haunted by the memory)

I remembered a night by the fire with a stranger’s words echoing in my head. I stayed up till morning, fighting with myself. (Chuckles through tears) And finally, I heard them again—hope, fear, love. Hope begged me, “Blow into the embers. Ignite the fire again.” Fear screamed, “Don’t! Don’t you dare! The fire might not even make it to the theater, and if it does, who says anyone will show up to watch?” And love... love just said, “You’re undeserving of its light.”

(He exhales sharply, shaking his head)

So, what did I do? What choice did I make? (A bitter smile) I hit the bar every night. Drink just enough to sleep. Try to forget for a few hours, only to wake up and remember everything.

(Standing slowly, wiping his eyes but not his grief)

That’s what I did. See you around, champ.