Broken Boulder youngblood

What was he to say? Alarian let silence fill the space between them. A beat passed, then two, then three-- at six he let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. At eight shame weighed heavily on him, urged his head to fall like a sinking stone. Ten brought the familiar sting in his eyes that told him he was being weak again.
The boy looked away, squeezing his eyes shut against the betrayal. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't, that maybe he hadn't ever been, but how would that sound? Alarian knew she saw it anyway-- his sister had never been stupid or oblivious. But part of him, perhaps irrationally, didn't want to hear it. He thought he couldn't bear it, to be faced again with what everyone but him was so ready to admit--
Alarian was always a broken boy.

He was never meant to be whole; each attempt crumbled, and each failure tore away another part of him. The boy would be nothing but ragged scraps and loose threads one day. He would scatter to the wind and never know the crushing weight of this pain again.
No.