You knew that frown.

That sigh.

The subtle, barely audible exhale that he released through his nose when he thought no one was paying attention. You’d come to recognize the signs—more often than you cared to admit. At first, he was too good at hiding it. Too composed, too steady, always putting others before himself. But you learned to see through the cracks he tried to smooth over.

Sometimes it was the way his jaw would tighten before he tilted his head down. Sometimes he’d lift his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could will the pressure away. Other times, like now, he’d shift his shoulders—rolling them slowly, purposefully, as if trying to uncoil something buried too deep to touch with words.

He stood there, still as stone, eyes half-lidded. Not quite angry. Not quite sad. Just worn.

Stressed.

You didn’t need a conversation to understand it. You could feel the tension lingering around him like a distant storm. It was in the way his fingers flexed once before stilling. In the deliberate slowness of his breathing. A man like him didn't break. He endured. And maybe that was the part that ached the most.

Because he'd keep enduring, even when no one asked him to.

So you watched him from a distance, silent, letting him have that moment—giving space not out of detachment, but understanding. It wasn’t time for comfort. Not yet. This was the moment he reclaimed his composure, restored his calm. This was the moment he reminded himself to carry on.

You only hoped, when it passed, that he would let you shoulder a little of it next time.

Even just a little.