Thunderbolts*

*"There’s something wrong with me. An emptiness. I thought it started when my sister died, but now it feels like something bigger. Just a void. Or maybe I’m just bored." "Daddy, I’m so alone, I don’t have anything anymore. All I do is sit, and look at my phone, and think of all the terrible things that I’ve done, and then I go to work, and then I drink, come home to no-one, and I sit and think about all the terrible things I’ve done again and again and I go crazy." * These two lines perfectly capture what Thunderbolts really is. This is my second time watching it, and somehow it hit even deeper. The more I see it, the more it feels like it’s not about saving the world — it’s about surviving yourself. Thunderbolts isn’t just about heroes — it’s about the ghosts that follow you long after the fight is over. It’s about grief that hardens into silence, about guilt that eats you from the inside, and the way people build walls around themselves just to survive. It’s not loud pain — it’s the quiet kind, the one that lives in the space between words. And Bob… there’s something haunting about him. The way he moves, the way he carries everything without ever saying it. He’s not just a soldier — he’s a man suffocating under the weight of what he’s done, what he’s lost, what he can’t escape. I love him for that — for the depth, the stillness, the humanity he tries so hard to hide. He’s all contradictions: powerful and fragile, terrifying and deeply, painfully human. This movie got under my skin. I relate to it more than I should — that emptiness, that desperate need to feel something real, to find meaning in a life that feels like it’s slipping away. Thunderbolts is a story about people broken beyond repair still choosing to live, even when it hurts. And maybe that’s what makes it so beautiful.