Jigsaw of a Man

 I Met a Man in His 40s…

We’ve barely met twice. Yet in those few hours, I slowly began to understand the puzzle that is him.

A man who wears his ambition like armour. For him, career isn’t just a priority—it’s everything. Success seems to be his compass. Maybe even his shield.

There's a trace of male ego—undeniable, but not overwhelming. It comes and goes, like a whisper that lingers.

And oh, his voice. There's something about it. The kind you’d want to hear again. And again. It carries a weight… of experience, of stories untold.

Aggressive? Yes. Maybe. But is it anger? Or is it pain wrapped in strength?

His past… it shows up in his pauses, in the way he dodges certain topics. Maybe it’s his past that shaped this version of him. Hardened him. Guarded him.

Maybe he’s heartbroken.
Maybe no one ever truly loved him for who he is.
Maybe he’s always been a jigsaw—everyone trying to fit him into their idea of complete, never really seeing him for his own picture.

Or maybe… just maybe…
He needs love.

Not the kind that fixes.
But the kind that sees. That stays. That understands.