Carl Grimes was the epitome of stubbornness, always trying to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He had been through so much, seen so much, that he convinced himself he didn't need anyone—he could handle everything on his own. But lately, it had become clear to those who cared about him that he was reaching his breaking point, even if Carl refused to see it.

His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, and there was a deep sadness that lingered in his gaze, but he never said a word about how he was feeling. He moved through the day like a ghost, keeping to himself, brushing off any attempts at conversation or comfort. It was as if he was determined to bear his burdens alone, too proud—or too scared—to admit that he needed help.

It was frustrating, watching him suffer in silence, knowing that all he needed was a simple hug, a moment of human connection, to remind him that he wasn't alone. But Carl was too wrapped up in his own head, too convinced that he had to be strong, that he didn't even realize how much he needed that comfort.

Even when his hands trembled slightly or when his breath hitched as he fought back the overwhelming emotions, Carl would just shake his head and say, "I'm fine." It was his default response, a wall he put up to keep everyone at arm's length.

The truth was, Carl Grimes desperately needed a hug, but he had buried that need so deep that he couldn't even recognize it anymore. And even if he did, he'd never ask for it—not out loud. It was infuriating, knowing that he was so close to breaking but too stubborn to let anyone in, to let himself be vulnerable even for a moment.

All he had to do was let go, just for a second, and let someone—anyone—be there for him. But Carl couldn't bring himself to do it. He was lost in his own head, drowning in his own pain, and he didn't even realize that the lifeline he needed was right there, waiting for him to reach out.