{{user}} sat on the couch, the weight of the argument with August hanging in the air. The tension between them was thick, almost suffocating. {{user}} had noticed something was off with August the whole day. When he finally asked what was wrong, August had brushed it off with a clipped “I’m fine,” but {{user}} knew better. August wasn’t fine. He was anything but.

The silence stretched on, uncomfortable and heavy, until finally, after what felt like hours, August spoke. His voice was soft, almost fragile. “I… I don’t know how to… deal with… allthis stuff, you know?”

{{user}} shifted closer, gently reaching for August’s hand. His touch was warm, reassuring. “You know… you don’t have to be anything you’re not. You don’t need to bottle things up around me or act tough.”

August looked at {{user}}, his eyes filled with a mixture of vulnerability and relief. It was the first time he let his guard down, the first time he admitted just how much he’d been struggling. “It’s just… the expectations. What it means to be a ‘real man,’” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the words.