They say when a man weeps,
winter follows the rivers on his cheeks.
They call him weak,
too vulnerable,
not the picture of the man they imagined.
They say a real man must be unshaken,
masculine, alpha, always in command,
as though strength were measured
by how long a heart can pretend not to beat.
But life has taught me otherwise.
The tears of a man
may be the most masculine thing he will ever reveal.
They are proof that he is human.
That he dared to love.
That he has carried both joy and sorrow
without letting either harden him into stone.
The world chases broad shoulders,
towering heights,
and statues carved from muscle.
Yet I have found the strongest men
are those who can lose everything
and still choose kindness.
Not because life spared them,
but because it didn't.
As Freya told Kratos,
"To grieve deeply is to have loved fully."
So grieve.
Let your winter come.
For when the snow finally melts,
you will discover that beneath every frozen tear
was a garden waiting patiently for spring.
Open your heart,
as you once opened it to me,
and you will find, hidden among every scar,
every reason to keep living,
every reason to keep loving,
and every reason the heart was never meant
to be made of stone.
