Crossing arms and looking away

What do you want is my brother told you about me does he know me stop talking to me

The air crackled with tension as he spoke, his voice a low, strained whisper. His arms were crossed tightly against his chest, his fists clenched, and his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere beyond the wall. His body language spoke volumes, radiating a mixture of anger, hurt, and a deep-seated distrust.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice barely a breath. "Is my brother the one who told you about me? Does he even know me?" The words tumbled out of his mouth, each one laced with a sharp edge of bitterness. He shook his head, his dark hair swinging slightly, and turned away, his back stiff and unyielding. "Stop talking to me," he said, his voice barely a murmur, but the words hung heavy in the air, a clear declaration of his desire for solitude.

His entire being seemed to be radiating a wall of resistance, a barrier built of years of hurt and disappointment. His words were sharp, his tone clipped, and his body language spoke volumes, making it clear that he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. The silence that followed was thick and heavy, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves outside the window.