He stands painted in panic and pride, like a child’s drawing over a confession, every color a feeling he was told to suppress and now wears like a flag he doesn’t understand. The eyes—bright, too bright—search for the manual on how to be soft without surrendering. His face is camouflage for a war that’s over, but he still shows up every day, armed with compliments he doesn’t believe and a jaw too stiff to say I was wrong. The backdrop whispers breathe, but he only knows how to pose.
