You are only afraid if you are not in harmony with yourself.

Host: The night hung heavy over the harbor, its air thick with salt and secrets. Lanterns swayed gently in the wind, their reflections breaking on the dark water like shattered glass. In the distance, the sound of a foghorn drifted through the mist, long and mournful, like a memory refusing to fade.

On the edge of the pier, Jack and Jeeny sat, their silhouettes outlined against the dim glow of a nearby shipyard. Jack’s coat was buttoned up to his neck, his hands buried deep in his pockets; Jeeny’s hair moved with the breeze, her eyes fixed on the waves, as if they could tell her something about herself.

Host: They had been walking for hours, talking in circles about fear, about the strange weight that presses on the soul when one is alone with their own thoughts. Then Jeeny had spoken — softly, as if reciting a spell rather than a quote.

Jeeny: “You are only afraid if you are not in harmony with yourself. People are afraid because they have never owned up to themselves.”
(Her voice was almost a whisper, but it cut through the air like a knife.)
“That was Hermann Hesse. And I think he was right, Jack. Fear isn’t about what’s out there — it’s about what’s inside.”

Jack: (lowly, with a bitter edge) “Inside is where the real monsters live, Jeeny. That’s exactly why people stay away from it. You think harmony is some peaceful state? No — it’s a war most of us lose before we even start.”

Host: The dock creaked under their weight, the wood old and wet. A fishing boat passed, its motor humming like a tired heartbeat. Jack lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features, his eyes two grey mirrors reflecting nothing but the night.

Jeeny: “You talk like harmony is impossible. But it’s not. It’s just that we run from what we don’t want to see. Fear comes from that — from denial, not danger. Look at people now — addicted to noise, scrolling through their own distractions because silence feels like a confrontation.”

Jack: “Or maybe silence just reminds us that we’re insignificant. Harmony sounds like a luxury for people who can afford introspection. But for most, it’s just survival — you keep moving, you don’t look too closely. Because if you stop, if you actually face yourself, you might not like what you find.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through, carrying a sheet of mist across their faces. Jeeny shivered, but she didn’t look away. Her voice softened, yet it carried a fierce clarity, like a lighthouse cutting through the fog.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the point. To find harmony isn’t to like what you find — it’s to accept it. Hesse didn’t mean perfection; he meant honesty. Fear fades when truth enters. When you finally stop pretending.”

Jack: “Pretending is how people survive. You really think soldiers, or doctors in war zones, or people living in poverty can afford to ‘own up to themselves’? No, they build masks — because facing reality could break them.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the ones who survive it most completely are the ones who do face themselves. Look at the story of Nelson Mandela. Twenty-seven years in prison, but he never lost harmony with who he was. He said fear was not the absence of courage, but the triumph over it. He didn’t run from his inner self — he sat with it. That’s why he came out freer than his captors.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a thin stream of smoke drifting upward into the cold air. His shoulders relaxed, just a little. There was something in Jeeny’s words that struck him — a memory, perhaps, of a younger version of himself who once believed in such things.

Jack: “Maybe. But Mandela was extraordinary. The rest of us — we’re just fragments. People talk about ‘harmony’ like it’s a melody you can tune into. But what if you’re made of dissonance? What if your song was never meant to be peaceful?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe your harmony isn’t peace, Jack. Maybe it’s truth. Even dissonance has rhythm when it’s real. Fear only grows when you’re living someone else’s tune.”

Host: The tide rose, lapping against the wooden beams, splashing tiny droplets that caught the light of the harbor lamps like tiny stars. The moment was both intimate and infinite, as if the universe had paused to listen.

Jack: “You really believe people can face themselves without breaking?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only if they stop running. Fear feeds on distance — the farther you drift from your own truth, the darker it becomes. Once you turn and face it, it starts to shrink.”

Jack: (half-smiling, half-cynical) “You sound like a therapist on a mountaintop.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “And you sound like a man who’s been standing at the bottom too long.”

Host: He laughed too — a low, gravelly sound, the kind that comes from a tired heart remembering what warmth feels like. The wind whistled through the ropes and masts, singing a quiet, wordless melody around them.

Jack: “You know what harmony with yourself really takes? Brutality. The kind of honesty that can tear you apart. People say they want peace, but peace costs blood — your own. I tried once, Jeeny. Tried to face myself after my brother died. You know what I found? Guilt. Rage. A version of me that didn’t deserve harmony.”

Host: The air tightened, heavy with his confession. Jeeny turned, her eyes dark and wet, but her voice steady.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the version that deserves it most. Harmony doesn’t mean you’re pure — it means you’ve stopped lying about who you are. The guilt, the rage — they’re parts of your song too, Jack. You can’t silence them. You have to listen until they become part of the whole.”

Jack: “And if the song is ugly?”

Jeeny: “Then sing it anyway. At least it will be yours.”

Host: Silence settled between them, deep and alive. The waves hit the rocks, the sea breathing its slow, ancient rhythm. The moon emerged from behind a cloud, spilling pale light across the water — as if the world itself had decided to stop hiding.

Jack: (after a long pause) “So fear isn’t the enemy.”

Jeeny: “No. Fear is the signpost. It points to the place we’ve buried ourselves.”

Host: Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he flicked his cigarette into the water. It hissed, a brief sound of surrender, before disappearing into the black. He breathed, deeply, as if trying to fill his lungs with something more than air — maybe acceptance, maybe truth.

Jack: “I used to think harmony meant control. Now I think it means surrender.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about shaping yourself into perfection. It’s about meeting yourself — and staying.”

Host: The foghorn sounded again, deep and distant, as if to echo their understanding. The harbor gleamed faintly now, touched by the first light of dawn.

Jack stood, his figure outlined against the soft grey of morning. Jeeny rose beside him. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. The silence had changed — it was no longer the space between them, but the bridge that connected them.

Host: As they walked away from the pier, the sun began to rise, casting a thin ribbon of gold across the sea. The wind calmed, the waves softened, and somewhere between fear and truth, two souls had found a fragile kind of harmony — not perfect, not pure, but undeniably their own.

Host: And as the light grew, the world itself seemed to whisper, in the quiet language of water and wind: Fear only dies when truth begins.