Sweet Glutinous Rice Balls (Chè Trôi Nước)

“Liking someone is the feeling that, even in a crowd, your eyes unconsciously search for them.” Perhaps romantic love begins in moments as small as that, a glance that lingers a little longer than it should, a quiet preoccupation that has no clear name, a presence that slips into your thoughts in ways you cannot control. And then, slowly, it deepens. You begin to love with an intensity that feels all-consuming, loving not only what is beautiful but also what is imperfect, until, in your eyes, that person becomes singular and irreplaceable. There are moments when you believe that only they can fill the emptiness within you, that only they are gentle enough to lead you through the rough, worn paths of your life.

But not everyone can turn those feelings into action. Some can only love in silence, keeping everything to themselves. Not because the feeling is not strong enough, but because fear is stronger. There is the fear of rejection, of losing what little there is, of crossing a line that cannot be undone. And so they choose silence, allowing one-sided love to settle in, slow and persistent, like an ache that never quite disappears.

That quiet affection is not loud or clear. It is gentle and almost invisible, like the dumplings resting in a bowl of warm ginger syrup, round and closed, holding their sweetness within. Not every feeling can be spoken, and not everyone has the courage to speak it. It lingers instead, soft and enduring, sometimes tender, but more often quietly heavy, something carried alone. Perhaps that is why sweet glutinous rice balls, with their simple appearance and hidden sweetness, become such a fitting image for love, something gentle yet elusive, something that can feel whole, yet can just as easily drift away without explanation.

There are dishes that do not exist to impress, but to remain. Sweet glutinous rice balls are one of them. They are not sharp like spice, not bitter enough to leave a mark, nor overwhelmingly sweet. They are round, soft, warm, and quiet, like a kind of love that only becomes clear after one has moved through the unsteady years of early adulthood. People often say youth is defined by first feelings, but what stays is not the beginning itself, but the way those feelings quietly reshape who we are. At that age, we love in a way that is both intense and hesitant. We want to hold on, yet we fear being held. Emotions never truly settle, much like the warm ginger syrup that surrounds the dumplings, always moving beneath a surface that appears still.

The dumplings lie within it, whole and closed. The outer layer is soft yet resilient, while the sweetness inside reveals itself only when broken open. Love at this age follows the same structure. We do not say everything we feel, not because there is nothing to say, but because we do not yet know how. Feelings are folded inward, hidden in unfinished sentences, in hesitant glances, in messages typed and erased. The problem is not a lack of love, but a lack of certainty. And so love becomes something both close and distant at once. Two people can sit beside each other for hours, sharing stories and laughter, yet still hold back the most important parts.

And then there are moments when that hidden sweetness refuses to remain still. The richness of mung bean, the sweetness of sugar, and the softness of glutinous dough come together on the tongue in a way that feels almost addictive. It is not a lingering aftertaste, but a quiet invitation for just one more bite. It is like the unnameable lightness that fills the chest, like the absent-minded smiles that appear at the thought of someone. There are times when the heart races uncontrollably, when warmth rises to the face, and yet even within that awkwardness, there is a soft desire to hold onto that presence, even if only in thought. It is a strange contradiction. You want to see them, yet you hesitate at the thought of actually meeting. You want to move closer, yet you pause before taking a step. A single passing question from them can unravel the mind entirely, making everything else fade. And one begins to realize that love, just two simple words, can carry a weight powerful enough to unsettle even the most rational parts of oneself.

And it is precisely this incompleteness that makes love in one’s twenties so fragile. People fall in love easily, but they also let go easily, not because the feeling is small, but because the self is still in the process of becoming. When someone does not yet understand who they are, it becomes difficult to promise permanence to another. Love, then, is no longer a destination, but a question. It is not about whether two people love each other, but whether they are capable of staying.

Some relationships drift apart quietly. There are no arguments and no clear ending, only a gradual misalignment. Two people continue forward, but no longer in the same direction. And one day, they let go, not because the love is gone, but because they no longer know how to continue.

And yet, even as they drift, the dumplings do not dissolve. Love is like that. It may not remain, but it does not disappear. It simply changes the way it exists, from presence into memory, from a person into a feeling. Faces may fade, voices may blur, but the memory of how someone once made your heart race, how they softened something within you, remains. Perhaps that is why sweet glutinous rice balls are more than just a dish. They are a metaphor, not for completeness, but for how incomplete things can still remain whole within memory.

And in the end, one comes to understand that first love is not something meant to be kept, but something meant to be carried. It does not stay as an ending, but as a part of who we become, quiet, intact, and unbroken, even after it has drifted far away.

-EL-

Next

---