Lockdown, Day something. COVID had paused the planet. Time blurred into static. It was just me, Furby, and the fridge humming like it missed people, too.

Silence Hits Harder Than Fear

Outside, the world went silent. No cars. No laughter. No footsteps past the gate. Inside, the house echoed. The kids weren’t with me. They couldn’t come home when the roads closed. That silence hit harder than the virus ever could.

At first, every cough made me freeze. Every headline made my chest tighten. I’m diabetic and asthmatic: bad odds in a global pandemic. I kept thinking, if I get sick, it’s just us. Furby’s loyal, but he’s not exactly emergency response.

Finding the Calm in Routine

As the nights dragged on, I settled into a strange routine. I’d sit on the couch while Furby leaned against my leg. We listened to the stillness together. He’d sigh, I’d exhale, and for that moment, survival meant simply existing.

Over time, fear became a habit. I cleaned everything. I cooked more than I ate. I counted husky howls instead of hours. The house turned into a ship, and I became its captain, sailing through silence, one disinfectant wipe at a time.

Furby, the Constant

Meanwhile, Furby kept me grounded. He barked at shadows, snored through Webex meetings, and reminded me that life still moved, even when the world stood still. Somehow, that was enough to keep me steady.

Eventually, the weeks blurred together. I stopped waiting for “normal.” Instead, I started collecting quiet things: the first light through curtains, the sound of my own breathing, and Furby’s slow rhythm as he slept.

Still Standing

In the end, maybe survival isn’t about courage. Instead, it’s about staying put, breathing through fear, and trusting that the world will open again. And when it does, I’ll walk outside with Furby, still standing, still breathing, still waiting for my kids to come home.