Episode 2 — The Weight of “I’m Fine"

Essays on love, language, and cultural differences 

— by Hyungihn Myung.

Language is a double-edged sword.

Not only speaking, but taking someone’s words into your heart
is like holding a rough stone bare-handed.
Words are lumps of thought and feeling,
awkward shapes we keep trying to embrace.
A square word cuts your ribs,
a triangle stabs your chin.
Who can say which hurts more?

I met my Korean boyfriend in Seoul.
People said I had to follow Korean ways,
but to me those words felt like a needle’s eye—
too narrow to pass through without tearing.
Love wasn’t always kind.
It never is.

He always swallowed his feelings,
as if politeness could heal pain.
Each time he gulped down emotion,
I stored one more anxiety inside me.
The day I realized how heavy that silence felt,
I broke it at the dinner table.

“Are you sure you’re okay?
Your face says you’re not.”

To read a heart,
you look at the face, not the words.
I wanted to tell him
how “I’m fine” can be a ticking bomb.
That itchy feeling inside—
it was the discomfort of words trapped too long.

One day, I believed him again.
He said he was fine, and I respected that.
But when the cloth of calm lifted,
his voice struck like a whip.

“I’m really disappointed.”

The door slammed.
His footsteps faded.
He said I’d ignored his kindness,
that I’d taken his “I’m fine” too literally.

It wasn’t the first door.
The first time, I’d warned him—
if you walk out, something breaks.
Once, twice, three times he left anyway.
I thought he had lost his mind.

He said,
“I didn’t think you’d listen.”
“It’s hard to talk.”
“I’m not used to this.”
Excuses lined up like a book of reasons.
But I hadn’t heard anything—
how could there already be a reason?

His kindness weighed on me.
Each time he walked away,
my heart faded a little more.

In America, this would be unthinkable.
Storming out mid-fight felt childish.
I wanted to drag his excuses into the light and tear them apart,
but my anger turned inward.
I saw the cruel part of myself,
and it shamed me.
So I locked the door—
not to punish him,
but because I was exhausted.
Two months of silence.
I erased him from my days.

Leaving the country where I once felt safe,
I slid into darkness I couldn’t name.
Meaning hid itself in unfamiliar words.
My intuition missed every target.

Korea is small.
Sometimes I ran into him—
at gatherings, on streets too narrow to escape.
His eyes, trying to meet mine, looked pitiful.
Pity was poison. I looked away.
Each time, my heart stumbled between guilt and resentment.
Even I didn’t know what I felt anymore.

He was the first man
to summon a demon inside me.
I told myself it was better if he never knew.
Ignorance keeps hatred alive.
So I ignored him whenever he approached.

When my indifference didn’t work,
he changed tactics.
Every night, he left small gifts at my door—
snacks, chocolates, bits of sweetness.
Did he think sugar could fix me?
Of course not.
But he looked like a drenched puppy in the rain.
So I forgave him, once.

Three months later, we met for dinner.
I spoke first.

“The first time you got fired, you said you were fine.
The second time, when your grandmother passed,
you said you were fine again.
And now, even with that pale face,
you’re still saying you’re fine.
Three times. That’s a lie.”

He stayed silent.
His expression unreadable,
his silence shaking my patience.
Finally, I snapped.

“Say something!
You never tell me anything.
Am I supposed to be a detective?”

My face burned red—
drunk on anger alone.

“Running away isn’t what adults do.
I’m not your mother.”

Three minutes stretched into three years.
Then, softly—

“Please don’t get mad, okay?”

“Why would I?” I asked.

“There’s trouble at work,” he said.
“I’m struggling.
When we go out, I want to treat you,
but lately… I just can’t.”

The words hit like cold water.
Relief rushed through me.
I smacked his back.

“You should’ve said that!
What happened? Who’s been giving you hell?”

I felt foolish—
accepting gifts, smiling,
while he was drowning in silence.
Even if I sold every gift he’d given,
it wouldn’t repay my guilt.

“Wait, you’re not angry?” he asked.

“Why would I be?
You’re the one who’s hurt.”

He sighed.

“It’s money.
Dating costs.
I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Then let me pay, stupid.”

That night his steps down the stairs were heavy,
as if his heart hit every step.
I texted his mother.

“Hi, ma’am.
I think he’s been paying for things
his company should cover.
He looks exhausted. I’m worried.
Would it be okay if you could give him some advice?”

Ten minutes later, she read it.
After that, something changed.
He made a brave choice—
to leave the job that had drained him.
He gave himself time to think,
and finally started doing what he loved.
His steps grew lighter again.
Relief scratched the itch in my chest.

Still, when he says “I’m fine,”
a quiet tension runs through me.
In America, not speaking makes you foolish.
Here, speaking makes you foolish.
We were raised under opposite rules.

How much had he endured?
One weekend, over beer foam on his lip,
he told me everything—
school, work, survival.
He’d been fighting his own battles.
Beer made him talkative,
almost like another man.

He listened to my story too—
how I fought sarcasm in a foreign tongue,
how pride became my armor.
In America, you survive by burning bright.
Since meeting him,
I’ve been learning restraint instead.

Now, when he says “I’m fine,”
I hear the words behind it:
“I’m tired, but I’m trying.”

I cook for him.
I tell him to rest.
I wait.
He comes back,
ready to talk.

Patience, I learned,
is love’s truest translation.

When “I’m fine” rises again,
I greet it softly.

“Hi. How are you today?”

I thought peace had settled in—
but roots grow deeper than we know.

That night,
we began digging toward the truth beneath us.