He never says “I love you.”

A Diary With Dad story from Himachal Pradesh

Not before bed.
Not before long drives.

Not even in emotional moments.

And yet, somehow, I always know.

Dalhousie feels like a place where things don’t rush you.
The air is softer.
The mornings quieter.
The evenings stretch just a little longer than usual.

And in that slowness, you start noticing things you usually don’t.

Like how love doesn’t always announce itself.

Indian fathers don’t always speak their feelings.
They show them.

In how they walk a little slower so you can keep up.
In how they check the weather twice before stepping out.
In how they remember the smallest details without ever saying why they matter.

Dalhousie doesn’t demand attention.
It earns it gently.

Much like him.

Here, memories don’t arrive loudly.
They arrive quietly – wrapped in mist, shared glances, and moments that don’t need explaining.

A jacket placed on your shoulders without a word.
A cup of tea brought just when the cold creeps in.
A pause to admire a view, even when no one asks to stop.

These moments don’t feel dramatic.
They feel safe.

And maybe that’s what love looks like when it’s been practiced for years.

Dalhousie holds memories the way Indian fathers hold emotions – carefully, deeply, without display.

It’s not about grand gestures.
It’s about being there.

About presence without pressure.
Care without conditions.
Support without speeches.

In the quiet of this place, I realized something important:

Not all love needs words.
Some love lives in actions.
Some love lives in memories.
Some love lives in silence that feels warm, not empty.