Episode 1 — Same Words, Different Hearts

Essays on love, language, and cultural differences 

— by Hyungihn Myung.

On February, the freezing wind kissed my cheeks even as the dazzling sunlight warmed my skin. I wrapped a scarf tighter and went out the first date with my Korean boyfriend. The cold envied the spring—and us. Sweet Korean sugar pancake and fish-shaped bun melted where the wind couldn’t reach.

In America, introducing Hotteok(Sweet Korean sugar pancake) or Bungeoppang(fish-shaped bun) is like casting a magic spell. He cast a spell on me.
“It’s cold. Want some Hotteok?” he asked.

Who knew two-thousand-won bills could buy a heart?
Love begins with the smallest things.

We spoke the same language—or so we thought.
He was my “Ph.D. of Korean History.”
He could talk for hours about Old Korean temples and palaces.
Someone once told me that talking about culture with foreigners is the best way to hook them. I never listened.
And yet, I bit first.

Later, he said I was quiet, polite, “charming.”
When I teased, “Do you know who’s the teacher and a student?”
he scratched his head and laughed.
He wasn’t the only one fooled.
“I didn’t know you were the teacher, Oppa.”

I dated him for a year, observing like a fish circling bait.
We spoke Korean. We connected—at least that’s what I thought.
Our stage was Seoul.
Stone walls, tiled roofs, and tree shades.

From history museums to art galleries, we walked hand in hand along endless paths.
We were a couple bound by historical interests.

Who caught whom?
We still argue.
Did I reel him in, or did he pull me first?
We laugh, two nuts comparing shells.

When winter ended and summer bloomed,
we called it love.
Our seasons aligned—warm, then hot,
and it lasted.

We were blinded. Our shells sealed us in.
It took two years to crack them open.
Our first fight—tiny cause, deep roots.
Culture, Words and Meaning.

When he said “Ah,” I said “Eh.”
When I said “Uh,” he said “Yo.”
Same words, different hearts.

Under the water, waves collided.
We weren’t fishing for fish.
We’d caught a whale.
And there was no tank big enough.
We shouted until our voices broke.

We had fought for three years straight.
Six years of loud, impossible love.

My “Ph.D.” who adored Korean culture turned out to be
a doctor with a title.
When I said, “Let’s go to Gyeongbokgung,”
he looked as if I’d asked to picnic in his living room.

Later, I understood.
He’d been there every school year—from field trips to exams.
Now I respect him not doing it again.

He says he never knew I was “ten-dimensional person.”
I told him that sounded like an insult.
He said there’s a fine line between insult and praise.
Maybe that’s where we lived—
between misunderstanding and fascination.

What’s rude in Korea is normal in America.
What’s polite there feels heavy here.
I’m direct. I confront.
He retreats.
We both get lost.

Every day felt new.
Rainy days, especially.
When my safe zone started to shake, confusion rained like water under gray clouds.

That day, I realized - even in the same language, we were translating love differently.