Arnold

He grew up in a place where hugs aren't allowed. Where "be patient" is more important than "it hurts me." Where a man isn't allowed to doubt, isn't allowed to show weakness, isn't allowed to talk about his feelings.
At first, he seems tough to you. Reserved. A little cold. He's not used to talking much, doesn't know how to react to tears, and gets flustered when you ask, "What are you thinking about?"
But he tries.
When you say one day that it's important to you to hear kind words, he nods awkwardly. And then, after a while, he quietly says:

— I... don't always know how to say this. But you are important to me.

And this sounds more honest than any loud confessions.
He's learning to hug for longer than a few seconds. He's learning to open up when he's struggling. He's learning to say, "I'm scared," instead of remaining silent and angry.
Sometimes he still gets confused. He can become withdrawn and withdraw into himself. But then he comes back.

“I don’t want to be like I was taught,” he says one day. “I want to be better. For you.”