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Some people need something, words, verbal affirmation. But you were never one for talking much from the beginning. And that doesn’t mean it isn’t there for you; it is.
And it’s never been as simple as I love you anyway, though the endearment is weighty enough for some.
But it’s in the things you’re given that you know. The way your hand fits perfectly to his cheek, like fingers made for the sole purpose of falling gentle on his face, palm designed to cup, skin meant for nothing but feeling the warmth he radiates, eyes for drinking in the soft flutter of his lashes when early morning light first creeps into your room. And in the way you know the constellations of his face, more beautiful than the ones in the sky.
It’s in the way your bodies fit together, naked and clothed, in sleep or wakefulness; the way his back settles against your chest as easily as flipping on the light or closing a door, and how your shoulders are drawn close when you sit, like two halves to a whole.
You know not because of words; it’s never been about words.
You don’t need them and neither does he.
For you feel it in him, see it in his eyes, outpouring affection more deeply than words could ever manage, and the feel of his warm hand held in yours, palms pressed together, fingers meshed, unable to discern which belong to him and which belong to you.
He’s quiet too. He tells you with gestures, coffee in the mornings, clothes washed without request, sheets changed before you notice they need it, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders when you fall asleep on the couch. And the way he smiles, like nothing in his life has made sense until you - it’s like direct sunlight pouring into your chest, bright warmth filling up all the cracks life gave you.
And you tell him in a similar manner, only different. In a language only you understood for a long time before he learned to speak it too. It’s in the way you return his gaze, fill it up with comfortable. – He translates appropriately and knows you aren’t going anywhere. – It’s in the touches too, a hand at his back just because, or a soft caress over his ribs when you know he’s thinking too much about what he considers failures and you consider mistakes. And there’s the way you lean on him too, whether it’s during a documentary he begrudgingly agrees to watch, or when you’re mentally too stretched thin to process life’s moments, and he knows how much that means and never pushes you away.
It’s in your togetherness. The way your breath becomes his when your bodies are joined in passion, skin on skin shouting benedictions your lips could never convey. Hands reaching, fingers grasping, mouths never far from one another. Or in moments when decisions need to be made and he asks you for comment because you matter; what you have to say matters, and you stopped trying to do things without one another a long time ago.
He trusts you with his secrets, his insecurities, his most beloved things, and you in turn give him all of you, and he takes, and takes and takes, until he’s giving you himself too.
Maybe it’s because words always said too much, but never enough, and you were always better at expressing everything you needed to just by pushing it into his presence with your eyes, borrowed until they became your own. And for awhile you were afraid, like you’d never been before, that he wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t accept the building feeling of need within you; until one day he did and maybe everything wasn’t okay, but you weren’t alone.
And sometimes those words still bubble up until they’re forming on your lips. And he always says them too. But what means more than the words is the knowledge that neither of you need them. Because you already know. Have always known.
And there have never been words for that.