It fits.

It is always interesting for me to find someone who puts my thoughts into words. In the book that I'm reading, a paragraph just jumped out at me that describes the battle in my heart. Some how to see that someone understands, proves that we are really never alone. That our battles are rarely unique.

I've never been a fearful man. That does not mean I've never known fear; God knows that I have. There's no S pinned on my chest. I just mean it's not something that stays with me all day perched atop my shoulder and whispering in my ear. In the months after Maggie woke up, I wrestled--even battled--with a long litany of what ifs that scared me. But her waking every morning had put that whisper to rest.

But the moment I leaned in and listened, tasting the trickle of hope and wondering at the unfathomable enormity once again, the whisper echoed. It smelled like the air behind a trash truck, the soil in Pinky's stall, or the floor of the delivery room. Its breath alone could gag a maggot.

Where as hope had returned only after I'd cornered him in the barn and extended an invitation, what if reached up out of the floorboards, threw his bags on the couch and made himself at home without so much as a peep. And unlike hope, who was tidy and neat, what if was a slob, seldom cleaning up after himself, and made it his point to throw remnants of his life in every nook and cranny of the house. Polar opposites, hope never raised his voice, while what if never lowered his. Not compatible roommates, they charged the air with a tension that even Blue picked up on.

~~Charles Martin, Maggie