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The Ones Who Don’t Break Out Loud
He wakes up early,
not because he’s rested—
but because the world doesn't wait.
It expects.
Demands.
Takes.
He shows up.
He earns.
He fixes what’s broken.
But no one asks
if he’s broken.
He’s the provider.
The protector.
The one who says “I got it”
even when he doesn’t.
Even when the weight is killing him.
His hands are calloused.
His smile’s automatic.
His inbox is full of bills,
but his chest is full of silence.
No one asks how he’s sleeping.
No one wonders if he’s lonely.
He’s a paycheck,
a pair of shoulders,
a name on the lease.
They don’t see the nights
he sits in the garage
just to breathe in quiet.
They don’t hear the thoughts
that echo when the house goes still.
He’s not allowed to break.
He’s not allowed to cry.
Because somewhere along the way,
the world decided
a man who bends
must be weak.
But he still shows up.
Every damn day.
With a tired back
and a full heart
that no one checks on.
So if you see him—
really see him—
don’t thank him.
Don’t pat his back
and walk away.
Sit down.
Pour two drinks.
And ask—
not what he does…
but who he is.
Ask what keeps him up at night.
What he’s lost along the way.
What he hides
when the lights go out.
And if he pauses—
just wait.
Because sometimes,
the strongest men
don’t need advice.
They just need someone
who finally listen
Copyright ©
jeffrey george
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