Chapter 4: The Word After Love

In English, love is just one word.
Love.

But in Vietnamese, we have two.

There’s “yêu” — the kind of love you feel with your heart racing. It’s young, bright, full of longing.

It’s the kind that says I want you, I miss you, I need you.

“Yêu” burns fast, beautiful, sometimes painful, like fire.

But then there’s another word, one that can’t be fully translated into English.

“Thương” is deeper. Warmer. Slower. Gentler. More patient. More forgiving. More endless, almost eternal.

It means to love with care.

"Thương" isn’t just love; it’s depth, care, and tender, still, and wordless understanding.

It's the kind of love that doesn’t rise loudly, yet settles deep. It's the kind of love that stays after the fire fades, when the person is weak, weary, struggling, hurting, wounded, lost, fragile, or far from reach.

“Thương” is love with patience, with time and forgiveness. It’s the kind of love that doesn’t just want; it understands.

When someone says, “Tao thương mày,” it’s not just affection. It’s saying, I hold you in my heart. I want you to be safe. I want you to eat, to rest, to live. “Thương” carries the weight of love that doesn’t need to be spoken out loud.

I think about this difference often. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been confused by what love really means.

Because in English, I love you feels complete — yet, in Vietnamese, it feels too small.

Maybe I don’t just yêu. Maybe I thương.

I thương the people who stayed.
I thương the ones who left.
I thương the memories that hurt but breathe life into me, that hold me together and give me strength to live.

If yêu is a spark, then thương is the light that lives on after the flame.

It’s love that chooses to wait, to linger, to persist and exist beyond — quiet, faithful, and kind

And maybe that’s what we, as humans as we are, still learning:

that real love is not only in the wanting,

but in the thươnging —

the act of holding someone in your heart,

long after they’re gone.