Words at the Foot of the Bed
2:17 a.m., cold as glass. Chaerin sat on the edge of the bed and watched the nape of his neck. Each time he slipped another button through the eyelet of her silk slip, moonlight flashed across his skin. When the sixth button caught, Chaerin counted inside her head. Seven, eight… and spoke.
“So—do you love me?”
The man—Junsu—paused, fingers hovering. He nodded, but his mouth stayed shut. Chaerin lowered her eyelids.
I love you. Between them, the words had always been taboo. Instead, Junsu took her wrist and pulled it to his lips. A hot breath grazed the back of her hand. He whispered:
“I like you.”
A Slippery Word on the Tip of the Tongue
At first she thought it was only a phrase. Age twelve, standing behind the wall, she listened to her mother repeat Have some rice through the closed door. Not I love you. Sixteen, first kiss on the rooftop—Hyoseong, a senior, stole her lips, then murmured Thank you against her earlobe. No taste of sweet air; only the tin of cheap beer and cigarette smoke left on his tongue.
Sophomore year of college, on a basement bench in the library, Heejin kissed the back of Chaerin’s hand. “You’re special to me.” Still no I love you. Heejin looked away, face stiff. That night Chaerin pressed her own mouth to the mirror and whispered:
I love you. The syllables shattered inside her mouth, clinging to her tongue like slippery raw clam.
Nights That Pay in Flesh
Twenty-eight, riding the last train home. Chaerin studied her reflection in the dark window and thought: By now someone should have said it. The couples around her traded I love you as easily as breath. That evening—like tonight’s Junsu—her lover had offered a very large and warm I like you. Yet Chaerin’s stomach rang hollow as an empty fridge. It had to be I love you. Between like and love* yawned the width of one bedsheet.
To bridge the gap, she offered her body first. Her hand slid across the rumpled linen, pulled Junsu’s shoulder down for a kiss. She scraped the hunger coiled in her gut with the tip of her tongue. She rubbed her breast against his chest. I love you still did not come, so heat stood in for language. The marks on her skin became scars in place of the forbidden word.
A Door Without a Key
At thirty-one Chaerin began to experiment. She set rules for each new affair: whoever spoke I love you first would lose—would hand the other the key. No one opened their mouth. So Chaerin spoke first.
“I love you.”
The eyes in the mirror lost focus. The words had not come from her lover but refluxed from her own throat. Junsu—today’s lover—answered quickly, “I love you too.” Chaerin knew: it was not a reply, it was flight. A response freighted with the wish not to have heard. Psychologists say the child who never hears I love you prepares never to hear it. The sentence is both a language of power and a surrender of power. The moment you say it, you hand the listener your key.
Chaerin had no key. Neither mother, nor father, nor Hyoseong, nor Heejin, nor Junsu had ever given her one. She could only stand outside the door with her hand outstretched. The door never opened.
The Method of Revenge
So Chaerin chose revenge. If I can’t have it, neither will you. I simply won’t say it first. On the bed she stroked Junsu’s cheek with the back of her fingers, traced the line of his jaw. He closed his eyes. Chaerin kept her lips sealed, swallowed I love you. Instead she pressed her mouth to his chest, grazed his nipple with the tip of her tongue. At each touch desire turned into taboo. Junsu moaned:
“Say it…”
Chaerin smiled inwardly. I can’t. That sentence stays mine alone. She wrapped her arms around his waist, scratched his shin with her toes. She paid in flesh. Though I love you never came, she filled the room with hot skin and ragged breath.
The Graveyard of Words
At thirty-seven Chaerin still had not heard I love you. She had collected hundreds of I like you, thank you, I miss you. The faith that someday the words would arrive faded like an oasis in a desert. Each night she closed her eyes and whispered alone:
“I love you.”
The word crumbled inside her mouth. When she opened her eyes, it was nowhere. Reality stayed silent. The sheet had gone cold. The gap only widened.
A Final Question
Have you ever been given I love you? Have you ever learned that language with your body? At this very moment, is there someone to whom you cannot say I love you? Perhaps at the foot of your own bed, where your fingertips rest, there still lies a key that cannot be spoken.