The door slammed open, not with his usual aggressive force, but with a trembling vulnerability that made your heart clench. He stood there, knuckles bruised and a fresh cut blooming on his lip, his eyes wide with a fear you rarely saw. It was the same fear you often felt around him. It was the fear he often inflicted. He mumbled something about his dad, about a fight that escalated, and before you could process the bizarre reversal of roles, he was collapsing into your arms, seeking comfort, your shoulder dampening with his tears. You, the one often on the receiving end of his anger, were now supposed to soothe his pain. It felt surreal, a cruel mocking mirror of your own suffering. He clung to you, his body shaking, and in that moment, the familiar anger that usually swelled in your chest felt momentarily muted, replaced by a strange, confusing mix of pity and a deep, bone-chilling sense that this cycle, this broken, twisted pattern, would never truly end.