From the first broken piano note in FEAR, NF doesn’t just open the door to darkness, he practically invites it in. “Hello darkness, my old friend,” he says, but not in a poetic, self-aware kind of way. It’s more like he’s given up fighting it. The door’s open. The fear’s back in. And this time, it’s louder.
The spiralling lyrics hit hard, hands bleeding from OCD, wondering if he’s schizophrenic, asking God if this mess is divine design or just cruel irony. “Is this what you wanted?” echoes like a final plea through the burning wreckage of his own mind. The glitching piano feels like his brain short-circuiting in real time. By the time the mansion’s burning and he’s still the one holding the gas can, you’re not just listening, you’re right there in the middle of the blaze with him.
This is why NF connects so deeply. He doesn’t just talk about mental health, he lives it in his music. It’s not polished or packaged up with a hopeful hook. It’s raw, it’s messy, it’s intrusive thoughts turned into art. And the title track, FEAR, might be one of the most uncomfortably honest pieces he’s ever written.
Then HOME comes in like a soft ache. It’s gentler, sure, but no less devastating. This time, it’s grief. That kind of grief where your mind refuses to accept reality, so you act like the person’s still alive just to survive the day. “Call your phone up, leave a voicemail…” It’s such a quietly painful image, and paired with stripped-back guitar and almost whispered vocals, it lands in the stomach like a memory you weren’t ready to relive.
There’s no rap here. No cinematic production. Just sadness. And again, so much truth. It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t make for big dramatic moments, just those tiny, crushing ones. The empty room. The unreturned text. The voice that still echoes even when you know they’re gone.
When WHO I WAS drops, it’s the first collab on FEAR, and you can feel the shift. MGK leads with a verse that’s essentially one long confession, scattering his dad’s ashes, leaving someone he was supposed to marry, guilt he hasn’t even tried to bury. It’s raw, and not in that “edgy” way, more like a man who’s come undone and is finally saying it out loud.
NF follows up with verses that feel like he’s crumbling in slow motion. Looking at his kids and feeling broken. Regretting his reactions. Admitting he lashes out, then folding into shame. There’s something so heavy in that line: “Hope they don’t wind up like Dad.” That fear of passing down your own pain? It’s brutal. But it’s real. The track feels like two men comparing wounds, not trying to out-trauma each other, just laying it all bare.
GIVE ME A REASON hits differently. It’s not about heartbreak or death, it’s about emptiness. That weird, unnerving place where everything’s technically fine, but you feel nothing. He’s practically begging for someone to doubt him, to criticise him, to light that old fire again. “I forgot what that struggle like,” he admits, and you realise that success has almost numbed him. When you’ve spent your whole life climbing, what happens when you reach the top and there’s no fight left?
It’s that idea of craving pain just to feel again, ugly, uncomfortable, but honest. He’s not glorifying the grind, he’s just saying: I don’t know who I am without it.
Then comes SORRY, and if you’re not already emotionally wrung out, this one will do it. James Arthur joins in, and their voices together? Perfection. There’s no ego, no production tricks, just regret. The kind that arrives too late. The kind that doesn’t need a dramatic breakup, just a quiet knowing that you broke something important and now you’re sitting in the silence it left behind.
NF’s always been open about his flaws, but this track feels different. Softer. More exhausted than explosive. James’s husky tone folds into the sadness perfectly, it feels like two people standing in the ruins of something beautiful, apologising to ghosts.
And then we land on WASHED UP. It’s not angry. It’s not even sad in the traditional sense. It’s reflective. He’s asking all the hard questions artists are too scared to say out loud: Am I done? Has my time passed? Was it all for nothing? There’s this gospel thread running underneath, like a quiet conversation with God in the middle of a dark room. And that’s what makes it land. It’s not “I’m back and better than ever”, it’s “I don’t know if I still belong here.”
And that uncertainty? That brutal honesty? That’s what makes FEAR such a meaningful project.
Because let’s be real, NF could’ve come back with big production, punchy hooks and a couple of radio-safe tracks just to prove he’s still got it. But he didn’t. He came back with the stuff that hurts. That scratches at your own insecurities. That mirrors your inner monologue at 3am. He came back not to flex, but to bleed. And honestly? That’s so refreshing.
I’ve always loved that about him, he doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t polish the pain. His music says, I’m not okay, and I’m not going to wrap that up in a bow for you. And FEAR? It’s a continuation of that. No artifice, no ego, just vulnerability served straight with no chaser.
I’m praying this isn’t the end of the story. Because if this EP is just the emotional clearing of the throat before a full album? Then we’re not just getting a comeback, we’re getting a reckoning.