A boy who had been given back ten times had every reason to hide the softest parts of himself, to armor the places where he could be hurt.

And yet the softness kept leaking out of him anyway, in cookies checked for raisins and crayons chased under tables and porch steps quietly repaired, because it turned out that no amount of rejection had managed to make him stop caring about people.

It had only taught him to be embarrassed when they noticed.

It was not nothing.

It was everything.

It was a boy who had been given back ten times still paying close, tender attention to what the people around him needed, as though kindness were a muscle no amount of rejection could make him stop using.