“Girlfriend.” The moment she spoke it, the glass trembled. I hated the way those three syllables spread through the room—like a badly buttoned shirt, the phrase sat ill on the skin. “You should call me that too, right?” she said. Her eyes quivered. I kept silent. 8:47 p.m., her living room. The air-conditioner slid a chill across my face.
A Name That Steals Breath
Girlfriend. Is there a more delicate title in the world? Comrade, lover, partner, beloved—none of them swallow air as stubbornly as this one. Perhaps because it carries ownership. Girl-friend. Just two spare words clipped together, yet between them nestles an entire code: you are mine, without permission you face nowhere else, even your underwear is negotiable. Each time the word leaves my mouth, something in my chest flinches. When I say I love you, the sentence keeps slipping, and that word jumps the queue. Girlfriend becomes a weight heavier than love itself, and while it weighs us down it also delivers a dizzying jolt.
Why Mina Left
Every night Mina checked the label. “I’m your girlfriend, right?” Quietly, distinctly, from the edge of the pillow. When I answered yes, she exhaled like a child finished with an exam, shoulders slackening. Next morning she asked again. “I’m your girlfriend, right?” I said, “You are.” Still she was not satisfied; her gaze drilled deeper—are you sure? maybe you’re calling someone else that? One day she finally said:
“I hate the word girlfriend. Each time you say it, I shrink. I feel like property.”
I closed my eyes, then opened them. “Then what should I call you?”
She gave no answer. After that, Mina started avoiding me. When colleagues at work asked, “Where’s your girlfriend?” I replied, “She left.” What surprised me was how comfortable those two words felt.
So-yeon Stayed
So-yeon liked the name. “It’s fine to call me your girlfriend,” she said, smiling. Yet she was every bit as cautious as Mina. “Even if I’m your girlfriend, if you see someone else, that’s your freedom. But then you’ll have to choose one of us.” My heart lurched—a freedom laced with permission and prohibition. We drew up rules: a daily confession hour when the word girlfriend tasted sweet. Perhaps because we were already prepared for the end. “I’m your girlfriend, right?” “Right.” Each time we answered, we burrowed deeper into one another while simultaneously picturing the day we would part. So-yeon would say, “It will end someday. Still, for now, I like being called your girlfriend.” Her eyes sparkled—the face of someone who, knowing the finale, refuses to forfeit the tremor of being named.
Desire Hiding Behind a Name
Psychologists say humans endlessly seek external labels to confirm identity. Yet a label is also a cage. Girlfriend is no exception. Inside the word two desires intertwine:
First, the craving to make the other unequivocally mine.
Second, the wish to do so without surrendering my own freedom.
So we play tug-of-war: pin on the name tag, then hold the string carefully lest it snap. Frightened she might leave, we knot it tighter, then feel the noose. Girlfriend is the zipper that cinches the airway. Zip it up and we feel the relief of we are special; simultaneously we sense the panic of we are closed to everyone else. That panic soon morphs into thrill—a space dizzying enough to suffocate, yet one we have no wish to escape. That space is the name girlfriend.
A Message from Returned Mina
A few days ago a KakaoTalk message blinked from Mina: Lately I’ve been thinking of you. Back then, the word girlfriend terrified me. Now, strangely, I miss it. I did not reply. I looked out the window instead; the word girlfriend seemed to float there—slippery when grasped, gone when released. Perhaps that is why we adore definitions yet end up imprisoned by them. When you taste the word girlfriend, which flavor coats your tongue? A sweetness that clogs the throat, or the bitter aftertaste of freedom?
So, when you call her that, do you truly want the name, or the hollow space where no name yet exists?