He doesn’t talk about what happened. Not because he’s numb or over it, but because every time he tried to speak the truth, someone left. Or changed the subject. Or told him to man up. So he learned silence as a form of protection.

He holds the ache quietly, behind steady hands and tired eyes. There’s grief in the way he double-checks his tone. In the way he gives more than he receives. He’s been taught that his softness makes others uncomfortable, so now he keeps it hidden beneath calm.

Some days, the weight of everything he never said shows up in his shoulders. In the way he exhales like the world’s been pressing on his chest all day. He wants to feel safe. But he’s still trying to believe it’s allowed.

What he needs isn’t someone to fix him. It’s someone who stays long enough for him to speak – slowly, awkwardly, honestly. Because the truth is still there, lodged between the quiet and the strength. And he’s still learning how to let it out without breaking something else in the process.