Luvsociety - сообщество

When the version of himself he presents to the world feels very far from the man sitting quietly inside. And on those nights, the moon remains. Sometimes full. Sometimes broken-looking. Sometimes hidden behind clouds. Still there. Maybe he likes that. Maybe somewhere deep inside, he needs the reminder too. You do not have to shine the same way every night to still exist. He misses people strangely. He can miss someone for months and never call. He can type a message, read it, delete it, lock his phone, and carry the entire conversation inside his head instead. He can remember someone’s birthday and choose not to message. Hear a song and think of a person he has not spoken to in years. Pass an old road and suddenly become twenty-two again. Men do not always stop loving things just because they stop speaking about them. Sometimes silence is where they bury what they could not keep. And sometimes the moon becomes part of that too. There are people he may only remember at night. A friend who disappeared from his life. A grandfather. A first love. Someone who died. Someone who simply changed. Someone he hurt. Someone who hurt him. Sometimes he looks up at the same moon and wonders, almost foolishly, whether they are looking at it too. He never tells anyone. It sounds too sentimental. So instead, he puts his hands in his pockets, looks at the sky for another minute, and goes home. He has friendships that outsiders may never understand. A man may know another man for fifteen years and still not know the deepest wound he carries. They may sit together for hours, talk about cricket, money, work, women, cars, politics, some stupid video, laugh until their stomachs hurt, and leave without once saying, “I was having a terrible week.” Or, “I needed you today.” But perhaps that was exactly what the evening meant. They do not always say, “I love you, brother.” Sometimes they say, “Reach home and call.” Sometimes, “You need money?” Sometimes, “I’m coming.” And somehow, that is enough. He wants affection too. Though sometimes he asks for it in the most ridiculous ways. He annoys the woman he loves. Pulls her closer for absolutely no reason. Puts his head in her lap and says he is tired. Holds her hand while driving. Touches her shoulder when passing behind her. Sits unnecessarily close. Asks her to stay five more minutes while pretending he does not care whether she stays. Because underneath the beard, the responsibilities, the ambition, the pride, the strength, there is still that boy who wants somebody to hold him without first asking what he has achieved. He still becomes a child around certain things. His mother making his favourite food. His father saying, “Well done.” An old song from school days. Winning something small. Finding money in an old pocket. A friend calling unexpectedly. Someone remembering a tiny thing he once mentioned. The woman he loves looking for him the moment she enters a crowded room. Men want to be chosen too. Not merely needed. Not depended upon. Not useful. Chosen. There is a difference. He wants someone who can survive without him but still reaches for his hand. Someone who does not love him only because he can solve problems. Someone who does not disappear the first time he becomes the problem. Someone who sees the insecurity, the bad decisions, the stubbornness, the ridiculous ego, the unfinished dreams, the moments when he has no answer, and still says, “I know. Come sit beside me.” There are days he wants somebody to take responsibility away from him. Just briefly. Someone to say, “You don’t need to figure this out tonight.” Someone to take his phone away, make him sit down, put his head against their shoulder, and tell him, “You can rest. Nothing will collapse because you stopped for one evening.” But he rarely asks. Because somewhere along the way, he started believing that being needed was the same thing as being loved. So he becomes useful. He carries things. Fixes things. Plans. Provides. Protects. Makes calls. Finds solutions. Drives people home. Checks doors twice. Stays calm during emergencies. Says, “I’ll handle it.” Again. And again. And again. Until sometimes, late at night, a frightening question appears inside him: Would they still love me if I could not handle it? If I lost the job? If I lost the money? If my confidence disappeared? If I failed? If I cried? If I admitted I was scared? If I stopped being useful and became simply... me? He will probably never ask anyone that. He will say, “Nothing. I’m just tired.” Men hide entire earthquakes inside that sentence. Sometimes he becomes quiet. And people mistake his silence for distance. Sometimes it is. Sometimes he is angry. Sometimes stubborn. Sometimes wrong. But sometimes, he is simply trying to survive his own mind without spilling it onto everyone...