The Language of Limited Words

Do you remember when you were in junior high school and had an undeniable crush on a boy? The very sight of him would set a fresh swarm of butterflies in your stomach, and your cheeks would flush a metaphorical pink regardless of your skin tone. It’s a feeling I thought I’d outgrown as a full-time vagabond. Yet, here I am in southern Japan, blushing at the sight of a tall, lanky man with curly hair.

It was more than just long chilly early winter walks along the Murasaki river, we could talk about anything. Our conversations were a patchwork of broken sentences and long pauses, yet we covered everything: books, ambitions, deepest fears, and the vital debate of hamsters versus dogs. We developed a shorthand—a private banter that left others confused while we collapsed into tear-inducing belly laughs over jokes that required no translation. In a very short time, we were able to be so vulnerable with each other. Sitting in silence, simply sharing space became fulfilling.

We never had to ask. When I mentioned a doctor’s visit to a friend, I looked over to find him already on the phone with information desks, hunting for English-speaking clinics. He didn’t ask if I needed help; he simply showed up to the appointments. In return, knowing he’d always surrender his own needs, I’d find him in the kitchen and wordlessly feed him half my slice of cake before he could offer it to someone else.

I know I may never see him again, and strangely, that doesn’t bring sadness—only a heavy, quiet gratitude. We never even kissed; in the presence of such a connection, it felt redundant. The joy and grief of letting go have become an innate part of this vagabond way of living.

It wasn’t about the Japanese he spoke or the English I tried to give back. It was his frequency—a quiet, steady hum that matched my own. In the middle of a busy kitchen or a quiet street, his presence felt like a grounding wire. I didn’t need a dictionary to understand the kind of man who gives up his last bit of cake or spends his afternoon navigating bureaucratic phone calls for a friend.

Some stories are best left short. Some connections are best left unspoken. My hand shivers. It’s been a long time since I felt this young, experiencing those teenage jitters all over again. And the most surreal part? We barely spoke the same language.

Mia

© Dear Dhuniya 2026