PeonyMagazine

When she first moved to another country for love, she thought the biggest adjustment would be language. Different accents, unfamiliar expressions, maybe a few awkward conversations. She expected to stumble through slang and cultural references until she eventually felt comfortable. What she didn’t expect was how unfamiliar affection itself could feel. Back home, love was spoken often and directly. People said what they felt, sometimes repeatedly. Affection lived in conversations, reassurance, and emotional openness. She rarely had to guess where she stood with someone. With him, things were different. Words about love were rare. Days sometimes passed without anything explicitly affectionate being said. She occasionally found herself waiting for those moments, almost rehearsing what she might say if they came. But the moment usually shifted into something practical. One evening after dinner, she stayed seated at the kitchen table while he rinsed a mug in the sink. The kettle hum...

  I used to think love didn’t need to be explained. I remember sitting across from someone I cared about, the conversation drifting past my feelings without ever touching them. Nothing was wrong, exactly. There was no argument, no goodbye. Just an unspoken understanding that as long as we were still there, still choosing each other, everything must be fine. Words felt optional, even unnecessary. I told myself actions mattered more, that needing reassurance was a weakness I should eventually outgrow.  Then I fell in love with someone who rarely said what they felt.  He wasn’t unkind. He just believed that love was understood. When I needed reassurance, he would offer logic instead of comfort.   It usually came up in small moments. Late at night, when the day was finally quiet, I asked something simple, “ Do you still feel the same about us?”  He would look at me, confused more than annoyed, and say,  “You know I care. Why do I need to say it?” When I tried t...