A Coffee With My Fears: The Conversation That Finally Set Me Free

A Coffee With My Fears

Me: I ordered us a table by the window. Rain makes honesty easier.

Fear: Good. I like a crowd to hide in.

Me: You’ve been loud lately.

Fear: You keep giving me the mic.

Me: I brought you here to ask what you want.

Fear: Proof you won’t leave me behind.

Me: You kept me safe when the house was all alarms. Thank you.

Fear: Gratitude is a soft chair. I could sit here forever.

Me: I can’t keep shrinking to fit you.

Fear: Then grow crooked; I’ll adapt.

Me: What if I date again?

Fear: Wear armor. Smile through the visor.

Me: What if I don’t?

Fear: Call it healing and never check the clock.

Me: I miss how I laughed before the shatter.

Fear: Nostalgia is my favorite leash.

Me: People keep saying, “Choose yourself.”

Fear: I say choose safe. It sounds similar.

Me: I’m learning boundaries that don’t become walls.

Fear: I’ll graffiti them with warnings.

Me: I wrote the letter I never sent. It helped.

Fear: Paper cuts still sting.

Me: You talk like certainty lives in your pocket.

Fear: It does, right next to worst-case.

Me: I’m paying the bill. After this, you can walk home alone.

Fear: You don’t even carry cash.

Me: Watch me—tip big, stand up, breathe taller.

Fear: Take the umbrella. I prefer the storm.

Me: Last word?

Fear: I always have it—until you leave.