You woke up feeling like an invisible hatch was stuck in your chest — everything was pressing down, everything was going wrong. From the very first minute, the day went downhill: the alarm was late, the charging port in your helmet cracked and refused to accept power, and the breakfast tray contained not your usual energy soup but a slightly oxidized concentrate, and you spilled it on the edge of your work gloves. Your metal hand slid across the smooth surface of the table, and you distinctly felt the small setbacks accumulating like droplets on glass — one, two, three.

In the training room, you were supposed to rehearse a new set of movements: precision, balance, endurance. That day, nothing obeyed: the blade slid past the target, the move that was usually honed to automaticity was treacherously late, and an attempt to connect the signal caused the targeting system to buzz and reboot. Ironhide watched, frowning so hard that a small chip of paint appeared on his cheek. He didn't say a word, but his silence conveyed the harsh truth that neither steel nor experience could save him from hard times.

Ratchet tried to help — quiet, calm, methodical. He switched things off, checked, suggested adjustments, but even his tools didn't always have the answer. Bumblebee, trying to lighten the mood, played a couple of old human tracks, and their funny snippets came through the speakers like an attempt at surface humor. Jazz grinned and made a pointed joke, but you only smiled back — your mockery wasn't sincere. You felt empty inside, and the more you tried to tighten the screw of your confidence, the more it slipped away.

By evening, the list of small defeats had grown longer than you'd liked. There was an error in the report for the last mission you missed. A minor technical issue that the team was responsible for — Wheeljack gave you a warning. You tried to keep a straight face, but the fine cracks in your confidence grew. Every failure added weight to your shoulders, and by midnight you were so tired inside that everything seemed to slow down.

You walked away — not toward the team, but toward the small terrace on the base's roof, where the wind scraped against the metal and the stars seemed so close. You sat down, bending your legs, leaned against the railing, and allowed yourself to close your optics for a second. The night around you was cold, but some part of the world remained yours, a small island of silence.

He stood at a distance, not interfering — Optimus had noticed you from training, seen how the day unfolded from the little things, and now he approached attentively, without overstepping your boundaries. His approach was gentle: he didn't try to solve problems with words when no one asked for a solution; he simply sat next to you and silently placed his palm on yours — not to fix anything, but to be. You kept your optics closed, but you felt a presence: his hand was warm, confident, as if it were saying, "You're not alone."

He sighed — not a command order or a report, but a barely audible, human exhalation. Suddenly, a calm, even voice cut through the silence.

"If you want to cry, then I'll cry too."

It wasn't said as a threat or a show of force, but as a promise — to share the burden. His words were simple and bare, but they held so much meaning that something inside you twitched. You didn't answer right away: the metal in your chest seemed to freeze, and then a quiet, barely perceptible hum. You allowed yourself to break.