When love speaks without saying a word

Some love never rush to declare themselves. They settle quietly into routines, tucked inside gestures so ordinary they almost go unnoticed. And if you’re not paying close attention, you might miss how they speak—not in words, but in the spaces they gently fill.

Growing up, I could count with my two hands the number of times I heard my dad say, “I love you” or “I’m sorry.”

I remember once, I got hit by a bike. Pain shot through my foot, and without thinking, I cried out, “Daddy!” It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t rehearsed. It just happened. Because deep down, I knew who would run first.

As I became older, the world widened. I met people who never had someone like him. People whose fathers were ghosts, or strangers, or far away. That was when I began to see—his presence wasn’t ordinary. It was everything. Therefore, I started asking questions I never dared ask before. Why didn’t he say “I love you” that often? Why didn’t he say “I’m sorry” when he hurt my feelings, even accidentally? But then I remembered the little things. And suddenly, the questions didn’t need answers.

“Rumwar ka ta kuwarto mon, gimmatang nak diay paboritom. (Get out of your room. I bought your favorite.)”

One afternoon, I came home holding a cup of fried liver soaked in vinegar—something I bought at a market stall, smiling at the tang and warmth of something I loved. My mom shook her head, saying it was unhealthy. But he just smiled and shrugged. A few days later, he came home with another cup, handing it to me wordlessly. I never asked for it. He just remembered. Just like the other little things he would buy extra of—because he knew I liked them. He also remembered when it rained. He remembered on the hottest days, too. Cooking my favorite hi-bol—beef stew with noodles—not because I asked, but because he knew it brought me comfort.

“Urayen nak, umayen. (Wait for me. I’m coming.)”

Since elementary school, he has always been one call away. No matter where I was, he was there to bring me or fetch me, rain or shine. Even after long hours at the farm, with dirt on his clothes and fatigue in his bones, he came. I once wondered what kind of love he gave. I see now—I never had to wonder at all.

He is a man of few words. But he listens. He remembers. He knows when to say I can do better. He knows when I need to be reminded of who I am. He knows when to call out what I did wrong, not out of judgment, but love.

There are moments—small, easy to miss—that live forever in my mind. Like when he scolds me for not holding the flashlight properly while he’s fixing something. Or when I get too emotional over something petty and dramatic, and he responds with a grumpy face. Or when he turns to me before an awarding ceremony and asks:

“Bagay kadi daytoy polo kanyak? (Does this shirt look good on me?)”

He worries about how he looks. He asks if his shirt matches his pants. And I smile, because even in his quietest insecurities, he wants to show up well.

But behind his sacrifices, I’ve also seen the weight he carries. The sighs he releases into the wind when he thinks no one is watching. The way he looks up at the sky, searching for answers to questions he never says out loud. The way he looks down on himself, thinking he’s not enough—”just” a househusband, “just” a farmer, “just” a man who couldn’t provide everything. But I wish he knew. I wish he knew how I look up to him.

“Isu agbasa ka nga nalaing, tapno haan ka kakaasi idtoy taltalon. (Study well, so you won’t have to suffer like this in the fields.)”

He tells me this as we walk across the vast land of the farm, calloused hands grazing the leaves he planted. He says it like it’s a warning. But I hear it like a prayer. He doesn’t want me to feel the ache he’s lived through. But what he doesn’t know is this: I’ve felt it anyway, through him. And still, I’ve felt loved. Because I’ve seen him wake up early and come home late. I’ve seen him mend broken things not just with tools, but with patience—as the “jack of all trades” for us. I’ve seen him face the kind of exhaustion that has nothing to do with the body, and everything to do with the heart.

Little does he know, every sacrifice he made built something stronger inside me. Every time he doubted himself, I was holding onto him as proof that I could be strong, too. Every time he called himself “just” anything, I wanted to scream that he was everything we needed.

I don’t need to hear “I love you” from his mouth anymore. I’ve seen it in the way he cheers for me when I succeed. In the way he tells others about my little victories as if they were his own. In the way he walks beside me—not ahead, not behind.

And even if he never says the words out loud, I know.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t need a voice.

—————–

Bianca Eunice Tapac de la Cruz, 17, recently graduated as a HUMSS student at Sarrat NHS. She lives in Ilocos Norte.