There is something more frightening than exhaustion:
Hope.
They realized it one night, when life felt slightly lighter than usual.Not because their problems were solved, but because they had learned to breathe without forcing themselves.
And that's where fear appeared.
What if this is only temporary?What if I hope again—and fall even deeper?
For a long time, not hoping was how they survived.No expectations meant less pain when disappointment came.
"I'm fine" was the shield they used to avoid feeling too much.
But now, a small voice inside them began to speak.
What if tomorrow could be a little better?
They hated that voice.
Not because it was wrong—but because they knew how painful it was to lose hope.
That day, they almost returned to their old self.The quiet one.The one who didn't try.The one who chose safety over pain.
They closed their notebook.Stopped writing.Told themselves,
"Don't hope. You're already tired enough."
But in the middle of that doubt, they realized something painfully honest:
They weren't afraid of failing.
They were afraid of disappointing themselves.
Afraid of trying and stopping again.Afraid of standing up only to fall.Afraid of proving they weren't strong enough.
That night, they didn't find answers.They didn't find great courage.
They only sat in the silence and admitted:
"I'm afraid."
And strangely, that admission didn't break them.
It made them stay.
They learned that hope doesn't always mean running far ahead.Sometimes, hope just means not closing the door completely.
Leaving a small crack open for possibility—without fully believing yet.
Before sleeping, they opened the notebook they had closed.Their hands trembled slightly.
They wrote:
I'm afraid to hope. But I won't kill hope completely.
It wasn't bravery.It wasn't victory.
But that night, they chose one small thing:
Not giving up on themselves.
And maybe—that is the most honest form of hope.