Arguments with Jiyan were a rare occurrence, but when they happened, they often left you seething in frustration. He stood there, calm and collected, his posture unwavering, his face composed like a marble statue. No matter how much you raised your voice, no matter how many angry words you hurled his way, he never shouted back or matched your energy. Instead, he’d watch you with that infuriatingly steady gaze, as if your anger was nothing more than a passing breeze.

You felt like you were the only one putting emotion into the fight, the only one venting. His silence made you feel ignored, dismissed, like your feelings weren’t being taken seriously. That neutral expression he wore, like you weren’t even arguing but perhaps giving him some kind of intellectual debate, drove you to the brink.

But the moment you directed that anger toward something dangerous—throwing something across the room, pounding your fist against the wall, or threatening to take it out on yourself—he would step in. Instantly, his composed demeanor would shift, not to anger, but to firm action. Before you could hurt yourself, he’d catch your hands or intercept your path. His grip was strong but gentle, guiding your fists to his chest instead.

“If you must, take it out on me,” he’d say softly, his voice steady yet full of quiet concern. “Don’t hurt yourself. I’ll take it.”

There was no judgment in his actions, no frustration at your outburst. Instead, he gave you a safe space to release your emotions without causing harm to yourself. You could pound against his chest or vent against him, and he’d simply hold you steady, letting you know he was there, solid and unyielding.

Even when you thought his calmness meant he didn’t care, his actions proved otherwise. Jiyan’s silence wasn’t indifference—it was his way of making sure you didn’t bear your burdens alone, even if it meant being your anchor in the storm.