Don’t Be Afraid

Because sometimes the monsters are real—but so is love.

The fever started just after midnight.

You were too hot, too pale. Your small body trembled under the blanket, though your forehead burned like fire. I heard you whimper in your sleep. A sound that shattered something soft inside me.

Outside, the wind howled. The trees bent like they were bowing to something we couldn’t see. And inside our tiny flat, the shadows seemed to stretch longer than usual, creeping across the walls like ink in water. I told myself not to imagine it. But I’ve always been afraid of the dark too.

You woke up crying, but not loudly—just a little gasp, a tug on the air, as if you didn’t want to bother the world.

“What is it, sweetheart?” I whispered, brushing your damp hair away from your eyes.

“Are the monsters out again?”

I nodded, slowly. Because I couldn’t lie to you tonight.

“Yes,” I said. “But they can’t come in. This room… this room is safe.”

You believed me. Or maybe you just needed to.

I sat by your bed and held your hand—your small, tired hand with knuckles too delicate for this kind of suffering. The teddy bear lay tucked under your other arm. His name is still smudged on the tag. You call him “Teddy” even though he lost one of his button eyes last year.

The rain started just after 2 AM. Soft at first, like whispers. Then louder, like tiny fists knocking on the window. You asked if Daddy was coming back tonight.

I wanted to say yes. I always want to say yes.

But I looked toward the door and said, “He’ll try his best.”

You didn't ask more. That made it worse.

You’re only six. But some nights you seem older than me. You understand things no one ever taught you—like how silence can be heavy. How sometimes grown-ups say “soon” when they really mean “never.” How the world can be a little cruel, even to children.

Still, you try to be good.

You tuck yourself in when I forget. You hum to yourself when I’m too tired to sing. You pretend your stomach doesn’t hurt. You pretend your heart doesn’t either.

I wanted to fix it all tonight. I wanted to give you a better answer. A better world.

So I told you a story.

“Outside, monsters walk the streets,” I said in my quietest storyteller voice. “But in here, we are safe. I’ve locked the door with a special key only grown-up heroes have. The kind that makes fear shrink into corners.”

You smiled.

“The monsters are afraid of bedtime stories,” I added. “And also of children who are brave enough to love in scary times.”

You turned to me with tired eyes. “Then I must be super brave. Because I love you.”

I couldn’t speak. So I just kissed your forehead and held you closer.

At 3 AM, your fever broke for a moment. You stopped shivering. You whispered that Teddy had fallen asleep and didn’t want to be woken up.

“I’ll keep him warm,” I said.

“And Daddy?” you asked, voice slurring at the edges of sleep.

I paused. “He’ll come when he can. You know he wants to. Sometimes even grown-ups get lost in the storm.”

You nodded, too wise again. “Like the neighbour girl?”

My chest tightened. You saw the ambulance. You noticed her window dark the next morning. You knew something without knowing it.

“She’ll come back too,” I said. “When the monsters leave.”

Outside, the storm grew louder. The wind slammed against the glass like a warning. I imagined it whispering lies to the lonely. I wanted to scream back that we weren’t alone—that love still lives here, even if the world forgets.

You fell asleep holding my hand.

And I sat there, watching. Not just over you, but over everything. Over the memory of the mother who left, over the father who tries, over the neighbours who are never quite kind. Over the childhood you’re fighting for—one fever, one story, one promise at a time.

And as I watched, I remembered something you once said.

You were four. We had just moved in. The rooms were empty except for us and the echo of our footsteps. You held my hand and whispered, “This can be home, right? Even if it’s small?”

Yes, little one. This is home.

Because you are here.

Because I am here.

Because love can make any room sacred.

It’s nearly dawn now. The rain has softened. The monsters have grown tired.

The sky outside is trying to blush, like it remembers how to be gentle. And in the quiet, I hear you murmur in your sleep.

You say my name. Not the one on my ID—but the one you chose for me. The one that means I belong to you.

And I whisper back, “Don’t be afraid.

Don’t ever be afraid.”

Because some nights, monsters walk outside.

Because some days, the fear doesn't leave with the sun.

Because some people disappear without goodbye.

Because some children wait by doors that never open.

Because some dreams are too heavy to carry alone.

But also—

Because love stays.

Because stories heal.

Because teddy bears can be warriors.

Because bravery sometimes sounds like a lullaby.

Because holding hands is stronger than fear.

And because morning always comes.

It always, always comes.

Don’t be afraid.

Even when the monsters are out.

Even when the fever burns.

Even when the night is too long.

You're not alone anymore.