6. Love Spoke Without Words
How You Showed Us Your Heart
Bandal never spoke. Not a single “I love you,” no cheerful “I missed you,” not even a soft “Are you okay?”. Yet somehow, I heard all those words in her silence. The way she stayed in the same spot, the way she chose to remain by my side without asking for anything in return, that was love, clearer than any spoken phrase. I know better than most how hard it is to keep showing up for someone. Even with the best intentions, we often miss our timing, let small misunderstandings fester, or fumble our expressions out of love so big it overwhelms us. But Bandal was different. Even on the days I couldn’t give her any attention, even through the long stretches when I was away, she never once held it against me. The moment we were reunited, she always recognised me, always came to me just the same.
When she was younger, Bandal was the one who always came to me first. Even when I was just sitting still, she would wiggle into my arms, tail wagging. She would run ahead of me, but always return to walk by my side. At some point, though, the direction shifted. I was the one reaching out first, offering my hand, meeting her gaze, lightly patting her back to wake her from a nap. I don’t remember exactly when the change happened; it was as natural and gradual as how time flows. But one thing never changed: Bandal always accepted me for who I was. Whether I laughed or cried, succeeded or failed, she would come to me and press her body against mine in quiet solidarity. When I cried alone, she sat next to me without a word, her warm presence a balm. When I returned home after a long absence, her sleepy eyes would meet mine with a softness I can still feel. Bandal never said, “I’m tired too,” but there must have been days when she was. Even so, she always chose love. Her warmth spoke even when she didn’t.
“I love you just as you are.”
Not long ago, I failed two job interviews in a row. They were positions I desperately wanted, and I had given everything I had in those rooms. I couldn’t have done any better, and so I tried to stay calm, telling myself, “Maybe that was never my place to begin with.” But disappointment doesn’t listen to reason. I sat on the train ride home, watching the evening sky fade outside the window, and the thought crept in: How much longer must I live this life - always having to prove, every single day, that I’m good enough, capable enough - especially in a place that will always feel foreign? If Bandal had been there, she would have come over without a word, quietly sat beside me, leaned her warm little body against mine, and comforted me with nothing more than her breath moving beside me. I wonder if I’ll ever feel that steadying warmth again. The days I shared with Bandal are remembered not in words, but in temperature: a love spoken entirely in touch.
At the top of my Instagram feed, I’ve pinned the photos from Bandal’s funeral. Even now, they’re hard to look at. But on the nights I miss her so much that I can’t sleep, I leave her little messages under those pictures. “Are you well?”, “What did you do today?”, “I miss you.” One day, I counted them. Now there are over 50 comments. A wall of questions with no replies. Still, I return to write again, because I miss her. Even so, I made myself a promise: until we meet again, I’ll live well. So this year, I travelled almost every month. Getting lost in new cities, stumbling upon unexpected views, and meeting people I never planned to meet - each of these things softened the ache of losing her. My wallet may be empty now, but my heart feels a little fuller. In the eyes of unfamiliar animals I met abroad, I often saw her gaze reflected back at me - soft, quiet, understanding. That was the kind of soul Bandal had.
The encounter I’ll remember most clearly happened in Sion, Switzerland. One warm afternoon, my friend and I were walking through a sunlit street when an elderly Swiss woman approached us with a gentle smile. “Coréenne?” (Are you Korean?) she asked. She told us she was learning Korean, delighted by the rare sight of East Asians in her quiet village. Using a mix of clumsy French, English, and Korean, we quickly became friends. After I returned home, we stayed in touch through WhatsApp. And one day, she told me she had lost her dog just a month before. I felt like the air had been knocked out of me. I knew that grief.
In broken French, I replied,
“Animaux de compagnie est la famille.”
Pets are family.
And she answered in broken Korean:
“정말 맞아요. 우리 가족.”
Yes, truly. Our family.
We didn’t need perfect grammar or fluency to understand each other. There’s a kind of quiet resonance shared by those who’ve loved and lost their animal companions, a language that exists without words. In that moment, borders and languages meant nothing.
Because love - real love - never needed to be spoken.
