For all the men who carried the kindness like it isn’t heavy.

To Ibn-e-Adam, who masters the art of illusion.

I’m sitting on campus right now, the exam just ended. The weather is calm. My bag’s on one side, my water bottle on the other. Around me, there are boys everywhere. Laughing, walking, talking. Just being boys.

But I’m not really listening. I’m watching. Noticing. Thinking.

And something I’ve been holding in my heart for a long time is begging to be written down today.

You see, people say all men are the same. But I don’t think that’s true. I’ve seen too much softness to believe that. Too many quiet acts that never ask for applause.

Like the guy who once passed his turn in the billing line to a woman who looked tired. Like the one who held the door a little longer for a stranger and didn’t make a big deal of it. Like the guy who stepped aside on a narrow path, pretending to look at his phone, just so the girl walking by wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.

These aren’t big heroic acts. But to me? They’re everything.

The world never claps for them, because we’re taught to expect strength from them, not softness.

There’s a quiet art men master. Smiling while sinking, laughing while breaking, nodding while numb. It’s not deception, but survival; a silent ballet of composure where pain wears a mask of strength. They walk through storms in tailored calm, not because they feel nothing, but because the world taught them to feel in silence. And in that stillness, they become artists of illusion, portraits of “I’m fine” painted over canvases of chaos.

They carry their pain quietly. They don’t cry in public. They break down in silence. And still, they smile, they joke, they give up their seat, they lift the heavy box without asking.

Maybe I’m obsessed not with men in a romantic way, but with these soft, unspoken gestures.
With Ibn-e-Adam.
With the way they try to protect without looking like they’re trying too hard. With how they make space, offer comfort, then walk away like it meant nothing. But it meant everything.

Sometimes I wish they knew how deeply these actions are noticed. How we carry their kindness like a warm secret in our pockets.

I haven’t met the man I’ll fall in love with yet. But if it ever happens, Wallahi I’ll treat him like art. I’ll care for him like he’s made of light and salt and skin. Like he’s a human and rare.

This isn’t a love story. It’s just a confession. A thank you.

To all the men who don’t even realize their small acts of care are noticed.

I saw you. We saw you.

And I hope, in some corner of your tired heart, this reaches you.

Just a little fun fact: you can clap up to 50 times on a single Medium article. So, if you enjoyed this one, don’t hold back!