We Speak Different But We Feel The Same

“I thought we weren’t close. I just wasn’t listening properly.”

I was having one of those days. The kind where everything feels a little heavier than usual.

I had just broken up with my girlfriend, and I had flunked a test that I swore I studied for. My phone was quiet. No texts, no notifications. Just that empty kind of silence that sits in your chest. I was tired, burnt out, and honestly, I just wanted to be alone.

But it was Thursday, which meant my usual visit to Ah Gong and Ah Ma’s house.

I didn’t want to go. I didn’t have the energy to smile, nod, and pretend to understand the bits of Hokkien I had grown up hearing but never fully learnt. But I went anyway because I didn’t want to have to explain why I didn’t show up.

Jiak Ba Buay?

The moment I stepped in, Ah Ma looked up from the kitchen and asked the same question she always did: “Jiak ba buay?” (Have you eaten?). 

I barely looked at her. Just dropped my bag by the couch and said, “Wa bo eng.” (I didn’t have time) before slouching onto the couch. 

She just gave a small sigh and mumbled “Jit chun eh kin kia.” (Kid’s nowadays) as she disappeared back into the kitchen. A few minutes later, a plate of orange slices appeared in front of me. She didn’t say anything, and  I didn’t ask. Just quietly placed it there and went back to whatever she was doing.

It was a small thing. But somehow, it made my throat tighten.

The words I almost missed

Ah Gong came out a little later, shuffling in his usual slippers, holding his mug of kopi-o and today’s newspaper. 

I sighed. “Why can’t they just let me be?” I thought. He saw me slouched on the couch, scrolling on my phone, and slowly walked over. He looked at me for a moment, then said: “Mai ti ki, jiak oren.” (Don’t be stubborn, eat the orange). Then, almost like an afterthought, “Wa sim tia.” (My heart aches.)

He didn’t say it dramatically. He didn’t wait for a response. Just said it, and took a seat across from me.

I stared at my screen and avoided eye contact. I didn’t fully understand it then, but I knew it was something about his heart, and somehow, guilt started to creep up.

A bowl of Mee Sua said it all

When dinner rolled around, I heard the clang of the pot lid and the smell of something familiar wafting in. Ah Ma placed a steaming bowl in front of me. Mee Sua, my favourite.

“Wa zhu mee sua hor lu.” (I cooked this specially for you.)

She didn’t look at me. Just continued ladling soup for everyone, like it was nothing.

A moment later, Ah Gong used his chopsticks to pick out a tender piece of pork and dropped it into my bowl.

“Li eh bin jin san, jiak ka chui.” (Your face is too skinny, eat more.)

I didn’t know how to reply, so I just nodded and said, “Mmm.”  But something in me softened. I felt seen, cared for, and loved.

I finally heard them

I used to think I wasn’t close to my grandparents.

They spoke Hokkien. I didn’t. I grew up on a mix of English and Singlish. I always thought they didn’t understand me, and I didn’t understand them either. So I built up this idea that there was a distance between us. A wall.

A silence we couldn’t break through.

But sitting in that dining room, with a bowl of my favourite mee sua and a quiet sentence that hit harder than any long talk. I realised the wall was never really there.

They didn’t need to speak my language to love me. They were already loving me in their own way. I just wasn’t listening properly.

The hidden meaning

Ah Ma never says “Wah ai lu." (I love you.)But she says, “Jiak ba buay?”And she says it every time I walk in the door.

Ah Gong never gives speeches. But he says, “Wa sim tia.”And quietly places meat in my bowl like I’m still five years old.

Sometimes love sounds like mee sua, still steaming. A sigh, a scolding, a second helping.

I used to think we didn’t understand each other. But now I know. We just speak differently, but we feel the same.