CULTURE & LOVE

My Venezuelan Friend Asked, “Do Koreans Love With Their Eyes?”

A conversation about K-dramas led to an unexpected question: If Koreans do not always say “I love you” out loud,

how do they know they are loved?

By Yuni · Alcove Notes

My Venezuelan Friend Asked, “Do Koreans Love With Their Eyes?”

I rarely watch TV dramas.

It doesn’t matter whether they are American, British, Chinese, or Korean. I know myself too well: once I become curious about a story,

I will keep watching until I know how it ends. So most of the time, I simply avoid starting.

But whenever I travel or meet friends from other countries, K-pop and K-dramas inevitably enter the conversation.

A few years ago, during a trip to Mexico, I had lunch with a Venezuelan friend. Before long, she began talking excitedly about Korean dramas.

As usual, I smiled apologetically.

“I’m sorry. I don’t really watch them.”

While she listed titles and actors, I hurriedly searched for them on my phone, trying to figure out whether I recognized anyone. Eventually, I became curious.

“What makes Korean dramas so interesting to you?” I asked.

She answered immediately.

“In Latin American dramas—and in many Hollywood movies—people kiss, touch, and openly express their attraction all the time. But in Korean dramas,

two people are obviously in love and still barely do anything. They don’t say ‘I love you.’ They don’t kiss. Sometimes they don’t even hold hands.”

She leaned closer, completely absorbed in her explanation.

“You wait until almost the final episode for one kiss. Sometimes all they do is look at each other—but somehow, it’s incredibly romantic. Even sexy.”

Then she asked:

“Do Koreans love with their eyes?”

I laughed for a long time.

Love with our eyes?

What were we—aliens? Did she imagine invisible love lasers shooting across the room?

But once I stopped laughing, I realized that her question was more perceptive than it first sounded.

Do Koreans love with their eyes?

Do I?

I was born and raised in Busan, in Korea’s southeastern Gyeongsang region. Busan is known for its direct dialect, strong intonation, and a kind of

warmth that can sound rough around the edges.

People from other parts of Korea sometimes say that a perfectly ordinary conversation between two Busan people sounds like an argument.

We are not always generous with words. We may not react dramatically, either. Affection often appears through actions: bringing someone food,

driving them home, remembering what they need, or quietly taking care of a problem before they have to ask.

Of course, not everyone from Busan is the same. But this way of expressing care feels familiar to me.

I have lived in Seoul for many years and spent a great deal of time abroad, yet that part of me has not changed very much.

English, however, brought out a slightly different version of me.

When I speak English, my voice naturally becomes brighter. I explain more. I use warmer phrases and express my emotions more openly.

Perhaps that is simply how I learned the language. Expressions that can feel too sentimental or embarrassing in Korean often feel perfectly natural

in English.

When I first meet someone, I might greet them enthusiastically:

“Hi! How are you? How have you been?”

But after we have met several times and become genuinely comfortable with each other, something shifts. My voice settles. I say less.

My Busan side begins to appear—the side of me that trusts actions more than words.

To me, that change is a sign of closeness.

It means I no longer feel that I need to fill every silence or explain every emotion. We can simply be together.

My friends sometimes notice the change and laugh.

“Yuni, that’s so you.”

I always smile when they say that.

Even among Koreans, I am someone who finds it easier to show affection through actions. When I care about a friend, I do not constantly tell them

how wonderful they are. Instead, I notice things.

What might they need?

Is there something I can help them with?

What would make our time together more enjoyable?

Because of this, friends sometimes ask:

“How did you know I needed that?”

Or they tell me:

“You notice everything.”

Perhaps this is one way of loving with your eyes—not simply gazing at someone romantically, but paying close enough attention to recognize

what remains unspoken.

While traveling in Latin America, I encountered a very different emotional language.

I saw poems and song lyrics painted on walls. Even when I could not understand them, I would stop, take out my phone, and translate them.

The intensity of the language often amazed me.

Love seemed to burn through every sentence—not only romantic love, but love for family, country, memory, and life itself. Sometimes it felt as though

even the strongest words were not powerful enough to contain all that feeling.

During a trip to Guadalajara, I photographed these words painted on a wall:

Me dicen que robar es malo, cosa que no haría, pero un beso de tu boca, con gusto lo robaría.

People say stealing is wrong, and it is not something I would do. But a kiss from your lips—that, I would gladly steal.

Compared with that kind of declaration, Korean expressions of affection can feel quieter.

That does not mean the feeling itself is weaker.

Korean love often carries tenderness, patience, and longing. It may live in what is withheld as much as in what is said. Sometimes it appears

in a bowl of food placed in front of you, a ride home, or a simple question:

“Have you eaten?”

To someone unfamiliar with the culture, that question may sound ordinary. But depending on the moment, it can also mean:

“I was thinking about you.”

“I want to know that you are taking care of yourself.”

“You matter to me.”

The Korean way of expressing affection sometimes reminds me of sungnyung, the warm roasted-rice tea traditionally served after a meal.

It is gentle and unassuming. It does not overwhelm you with sweetness or spice. But it quietly warms your stomach, and the warmth remains long

after you have finished drinking it.

Perhaps that was what fascinated my Venezuelan friend about Korean dramas.

The characters did not need to explain everything. A long glance, a small gesture, or one carefully chosen sentence could hold all the emotion that

other stories might express through a passionate speech or kiss.

Of course, Korean culture does not appeal to everyone. What feels subtle to one person may feel frustratingly vague to another.

Quietness can be mistaken for coldness. Restraint can look like disinterest.

And the misunderstanding can go in both directions.

As I traveled through Mexico and other parts of Latin America, I sometimes found myself wondering how people could express their emotions

so completely and so quickly.

How could someone speak with such passion about a person they had only recently met?

How could people celebrate so fully when no one knew what tomorrow would bring?

At first, it felt almost reckless to me—as if people were pouring out every emotion they possessed without saving anything for later.

But the longer I traveled, the more people I met, and the more closely I listened, the more my perspective changed.

That openness was not careless.

It was alive.

The affection I witnessed could be bold, dramatic, and almost blazing. But it was also generous. People were willing to give joy a body and a voice.

They laughed loudly, embraced warmly, danced without apology, and allowed happiness to occupy the present moment.

Eventually, I stopped comparing that way of expressing love with my own. I began to appreciate each for what it was.

One kind of love burns brightly enough for everyone to see.

Another glows quietly and waits to be noticed.

Neither is more sincere.

They simply speak different emotional languages.

Even within Korea, people express themselves differently. Someone from Seoul may speak differently from someone from Busan.

Two people can share the same language and still misunderstand each other’s silence, tone, or gestures.

Yet beneath those differences, so many feelings are familiar.

The happiness of caring for someone.

The discomfort of uncertainty.

The pain of being misunderstood.

The sadness of losing something precious.

The hope that another person will notice what we cannot quite say.

Perhaps differences do not have to push us apart. Sometimes they simply ask us to pay closer attention.

We may need to listen beyond words.

We may need to notice what someone repeatedly does, not only what they say.

We may need to ask what affection looks like in their language, their family, or their culture—instead of assuming it should look like our own.

So, do Koreans love with their eyes?

Some of us probably do.

Some love through food.

Some through practical help.

Some through words they only manage to say after rehearsing them a hundred times.

And some may look at you across a room, say almost nothing, and still hope you understand everything.

Perhaps my friend was right.

I may be a Korean who sometimes speaks love through her eyes.

And she may be someone who lets affection travel through her voice, her face, and her entire body.

Different expressions.

The same human wish:

To love—and to know that our love has been understood.

A QUESTION FOR YOU

Does love feel more meaningful to you when it is spoken, shown through actions, or simply understood?