When a man says "I am fine,"
it's a loaded phrase, a carefully constructed wall.
It's not a declaration of well-being,
but a shield raised against the world,
a silent plea for understanding,
masked as stoic acceptance.

"I am fine" means
the turbulent sea within is best left undisturbed.
The storm rages, the waves crash,
but the surface remains deceptively calm.
To speak of the tempest would be to invite chaos,
to unleash a torrent of emotions best contained.

It's the weight of unspoken words,
the burden of unshared sorrows,
pressing down, a constant, dull ache.
To open the floodgates would be to risk vulnerability,
to expose the fragile heart beneath the armor.

"I am fine" is a fortress built of solitude,
each brick a carefully chosen silence.
It's a refuge, a place to retreat and lick wounds,
away from prying eyes and well-meaning concern.
The world expects strength, resilience,
and "I am fine" is the uniform of the stoic warrior.

It's the fear of being a burden,
the worry that sharing pain will only amplify it.
Better to shoulder the weight alone,
than to inflict it upon those who care.
"I am fine" is a sacrifice, a self-imposed isolation,
born of a desire to protect.

It's the exhaustion of explaining,
the weariness of dissecting every feeling,
every nuance of pain.
Sometimes, silence is the only solace,
the only way to navigate the labyrinth of the mind.

"I am fine" is not a lie,
but a carefully curated truth.
It's the truth of the present moment,
the decision to postpone the unraveling,
to postpone the vulnerability.

It's the hope that the storm will pass,
that the sun will eventually break through the clouds.
"I am fine" is a temporary truce,
a promise to oneself to face the darkness,
eventually.

"I am fine" is a code,
a language spoken in hushed tones.
It's a signal, a request, a boundary.
It's a man saying,
"I am fine,"
for now.