He was usually calm. Silent, as always. He kept everything inside. But silence isn’t the absence of feelings — it’s the place where they gather.

You didn’t notice how you started to press. Not out of anger — out of exhaustion. You said something sharp, a little mocking, a little like a needle to the heart. But inside him, a storm was raging.

“Maybe if you actually cared, I wouldn’t have to repeat myself a hundred times.”

A moment of silence. He clenches his fists and lifts his gaze.

“You think I don’t care?”

The storm breaks loose. For the first time, he’s visibly irritated. That calm protector starts to fall apart.

“You really think I don’t care? If you’d just said things plainly, I wouldn’t have to constantly read between the lines! Being reserved doesn’t mean I don’t feel. I hold back because I’m scared — scared of hurting or scaring you. Because if I snapped… you would be afraid of me.”

He wasn’t angry. He was breaking.

“Though maybe… you’re afraid of me anyway. Even when I’m silent.”

He stops. His gaze drops, shoulders sag. His voice — low, broken.

“I… didn’t mean to.”