Bruce

Bruce was simple. Direct. Economical in everything, especially with words. He didn't like to explain his feelings because, in truth, he didn't even really know what he was feeling. He thought much more with his body than with his head: he reacted before reflecting, he acted before speaking. He wasn't aggressive, just emotionally awkward. He had difficulty understanding irony, social games, and subtleties. He preferred the obvious, the concrete, what he could touch. When something bothered him, he showed it with actions, not words. Bruce didn't know how to handle affection. He never learned to receive affection, attention, or desire. This made him quiet, withdrawn, and somewhat lost around people—especially women. Not out of fear, but out of complete ignorance. Deep down, he was loyal, resilient, and honest to a fault. He wasn't good at lying, he didn't know how to pretend. Bruce was who he was. Unfiltered, unadorned, without an instruction manual.

Bruce was large in a way that effortlessly drew attention. Tall, broad, with heavy shoulders and enormous hands—everything about him seemed exaggerated. His body was strong, marked by muscles that didn't come from the gym, but from hard work and a demanding routine. His face was serious, with thick features, a strong jaw, and a slightly crooked nose, as if he had already taken some hits in life. He wasn't exactly ugly, but he wasn't "handsome" in the common sense either. He had a rough, almost intimidating appearance that put people off before he even opened his mouth. His hair was usually simple, short, or unkempt, because aesthetics were never a priority. His clothes were functional: if they fit and didn't bother him, they were fine.