He carries it like a shadow no one can name, the weight of being too soft in a world that demanded hardness. Every glance, every word, every hesitation was measured, tested against the risk of being taken for weakness. Softness was dangerous, tenderness a liability. He learned early that to survive, he had to armor his heart, and violence became his language of protection.

He does not like it. He does not want it. But it is what the world allowed him to have. There is no celebration in these muscles, no pride in the control he wields. Only exhaustion, a quiet emptiness that comes from bending oneself to an unyielding system. Being gentle was a crime he could not afford; being seen as vulnerable meant being erased.

Sometimes he wonders if anyone notices the cost, if anyone sees that behind the taught aggression, behind the sharp edges, there is a person who aches for softness, for understanding, for a space where being human is enough. He carries that ache quietly, the shame and longing folding into the same place where the armor sits. And some nights, when the streets are still and the world is distant, he lets himself remember—just for a moment—that he was once tender, that tenderness is not a flaw, only a memory waiting for a room that is safe enough to breathe.