Love in a Language He Never Learned

Love in a Language He Never Learned

By [Abdul Hadi]

The house was quieter than he remembered. Not silent—just... muted. Like grief had soaked into the wallpaper and creaked in every floorboard.

Aariz hadn't been back here in five years. Not since the last fight. Not since his father told him to get out and not come back until he "grew up and stopped acting soft."

Now the old man was gone, and Aariz was here, sorting through his life in cardboard boxes and dust.

The air smelled like cigarettes and old spices. Familiar. Heavy.

He never came out and said “I love you.” Not once. Not when Aariz broke his arm falling off his bike. Not when he graduated. Not when his mother died.

He said things like:

"You eating alright?"

"Check the oil in your car."

"You don’t need all those feelings. They slow a man down."

Aariz used to mistake that for cruelty. Sometimes it was. But sometimes… it was just clumsy love—twisted and tangled like the man himself.

The box marked “personal” was the last one he touched. It felt like a boundary he wasn’t sure he had permission to cross.

Inside, he found old receipts, photos, his mother’s wedding ring—and then, near the bottom, a stack of unopened envelopes.

They were addressed to him.

He stared at the handwriting. It was his father’s.

The first letter was dated three years ago. The day after Aariz had left for good.

"Aariz. I know you won’t read this. Maybe you’ll never read any of them. But I have to write anyway. Because the things I said... I didn’t mean all of them. Some, yes. But not the parts that hurt you. Not the parts that made you feel small."

Aariz sat down on the floor, legs crossed, heart tightening.

Each letter was another year peeled back. Each one a conversation his father never had the courage to start aloud.

"I saw your article in the paper. Didn’t say anything. Didn't want to seem proud. But I was. Still have it clipped in the kitchen drawer."

"I don’t know how to talk to you when you cry. That’s on me. Your mother always knew what to say. I just freeze. Like I don’t have the tools."

"You asked me once why I never hugged you. The truth is, I didn’t know how. No one ever hugged me unless they were drunk or angry. I didn’t want to hurt you, so I did nothing. I thought nothing would be safer than too much."

Aariz blinked back tears. His hands trembled as he unfolded another page.

In the final letter, written just two weeks before his death, the handwriting was shaky.

"I don’t know how many chances I’ve got left, son. If you’re reading this, then maybe you came back. Or maybe not. But just know—if I could live it again, I’d learn how to speak your language. I’d try harder. I’d say the damn words out loud. I love you, Aariz. Always did. I just never learned how to show it."

Aariz didn’t realize he was sobbing until one of the pages slipped from his hands, curling on the floor like a closing chapter.

He sat in that spot for hours, rereading, remembering. The man he hated. The man he missed. The man who never said the right thing—but sometimes tried in the wrong ways.

People think love is supposed to be soft, warm, open.

But sometimes, it’s stiff. Clumsy. Spoken in broken gestures and half-mumbled concerns. Sometimes, it’s shown in meals made without asking, in advice that sounds like criticism, and in letters never sent.

That night, Aariz placed the letters in a clean box, sealed it gently, and placed it in the attic with a label that read:

“Dad — Things He Couldn’t Say.”

He lit a candle for him in the hallway, where the scent of burnt wax mingled with old memories.

“I love you too,” he whispered, even though no one was there to hear.

Or maybe someone was.