He wasn't afraid.
So he loved without caution. He loved and he loved and he loved. He loved many and he was with many; as a result he was called a player.
He was strong.
He was strong, so he could handle the judgmental stares he received when he fucked up. Because he was strong he didn't care, so he lived without caution and did as he pleased.
He didn't cry.
And because he didn't cry; he was thought to be emotionless. He was thought to not care about anything, so he never received love, because everyone always thought he never needed it.
For the life of him; he couldn't understand.
He didn't understand why he wasn't loved, why no one paid him no mind, why he was left alone and in the dark. He listened, didn't he? To what he was taught. He followed every instruction.
So he became bitter.
He stopped caring eventually. He didn't care to be loved, he didn't care to listen anymore, what good did that ever get him? He stopped altogether, until he saw a hand reaching out, needing help.