Someone once broke open beside you. Tears traced the pillow between you like tiny rivers. And you froze. You wanted to help, but your hands had never been taught how to comfort — only how to build distance, or fold into apology. You whispered, “It’ll be okay,” but your voice cracked in the wrong place. You touched their shoulder like a doorknob, hoping not to be locked out again. Later, you realized you weren’t absent — you were untrained. That night became the vow: *To become gentler than my father, and stronger than my silence.*