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"Mamihlaminatapai" — a word from the Yagán language. According to Thomas Bridges, it means "to look at one another, waiting for one to offer to do something that both parties deeply desire, but neither is willing to do." According to Victor Vargas, it means "the moment of reflection around the pusakí, when the elders pass down their stories to the young. It is that instant when everyone is quiet."
Mamihlaminatapai — a word from an almost extinct language. Mamihlaminatapai has no fixed meaning, but there is a consensus: it is romantic, beautiful.
Mamihlaminatapai, to me, means the same as Park Minju. It means the moments when we stay silent beside each other, or the many times when a single glance was not enough for us to understand one another.
The first time I felt mamihlaminatapai, I didn't recognize it in such a delicate way. Park Minju has been my friend since childhood — more precisely, since sixth grade.
In the beginning, we were children. We played together, running after one another at school. Minju would scream louder and louder as she got excited, and me? I screamed along, trying to keep enough breath in my lungs to keep running. On weekends, I would go to her house, eat her mother's cinnamon cookies, feeling the warm, sweet chunks of apple she put in the middle.
On those days, we would invent stories where we were princesses, heroines, warriors, grocery store cashiers, businesswomen, or even mothers, sharing a child made of fabric and stuffing. And on those days, even without understanding why, my heart seemed to beat a little faster.
As time passed, things began to change. Childhood ended, and some things started to make more sense. At 13, in eighth grade, I understood my strange reaction to being Minju's fake wife. As high school approached, teachers became stricter, and more assignments had to be done. Minju was always my partner, and that day was no different.
We had only done half of a project on the Goryeo dynasty before lying down on the big rug in my room. Some cushions softened my head as we stared at the ceiling in silence. A Girls' Generation song played softly, marking our era of obsession with them. Minju was peaceful, her hair close to my face, letting me smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo — the same one I sometimes tried to eat during childhood.
We spent a long time like that before she called me, her soft voice pronouncing my name faintly.
"Yunah..."
Minju's voice had always done something to my stomach, as if the vibration of her vocal cords awakened thousands of ladybugs that promptly began running inside me. My response was just a faint murmur — I remember not being able to answer properly, too focused on the incomprehensible anxiety growing inside me. And honestly, it wasn't even necessary for me to respond. I waited a few seconds for Minju to say something — to ask me to continue the project, or to ask for something to eat — but she just lay on her side, resting her head on her hand.
"I like the shape of your mouth."
Her voice was so soft, almost like the sensation of velvet fabric brushing against my skin — but better, softer.
"You do? That's new."
"I like it... a lot."
I laughed, thinking it would end there. With my eyes closed, carried by a soft, low laugh, I could feel Minju moving. First closer, and then on top of me. I felt her body partially resting on my chest and her hand holding my face with such care that, if she weren't there, I wouldn't even feel it. My heart stopped, leaving my body cold for a few seconds — and then I felt it for the first time.
Her soft lips touched mine, with the subtlety only Minju was capable of. It wasn't a full kiss — it was a strange, lingering, clumsy peck — but God, it couldn't have been better.
That afternoon, as my room grew more orange with the setting sun, Minju's lips became swollen for the first time, from completely clumsy kisses. And for the first time, I understood that it had always been about Minju — that, from the very first moment, it was her.
Accepting that I'm a lesbian was not an easy process. For some time, I thought something was wrong with me. On some nights, I tried to convince myself that I could love a man as much as I loved Minju — that maybe the lips of the boys in my class could make me feel the way hers did. But time only showed me that was impossible.
Every time I tried to get close to boys, it ended the same way: with me pulling away in disgust — not because of any horrible act, but because of the very idea of being with them. And at times, in the height of adolescence, other women showed me that with them, I would never feel that way. Regardless, at the end of the day, all I could think about was Minju. Everyone who at some point passed through my life ended up being compared to her, over and over again.
Minju and I never talked about that day — nor about all the others that followed, where I was devoured by her lips in the most delicate way possible. And that's how I discovered mamihlaminatapai.
Mamihlaminatapai is not something objective, but it is a word that accompanies me day and night. Minju is almost always watching me, and while she stays silent, looking at me, I remember mamihlaminatapai. I think about what goes on in her mind — whether at some point she wanted to tell me what all those times my lips turned red because of her meant. Whether the days our sleepovers ended with her sleeping on top of me meant something. Whether, for at least one second, she loved me.
For me, mamihlaminatapai is not the silence that arises from the desire not to do a boring task, nor the moment when everyone just listens and one person speaks. It is the moments when Minju just watches me, and I know she is thinking of me. Mamihlaminatapai is every time I wished to confess to her — to kneel before her and let it all out, to beg her to be my girlfriend and live the love I've dreamed of since childhood — but fear wouldn't allow it. It is every time I asked myself if Minju wanted the same.
When my gaze is fixed on Minju, and the soft sunlight illuminates her face, I wonder what she thinks — whether the feeling of being warm reminds her of me.
When Victor Vargas says pusakí, he refers to fire. "The moment of reflection around the pusakí[...]" — that is nothing more than the moment of reflection around the fire. Pusakí is within me, and every time I see Minju's peaceful face, I feel it pulse.
Park Minju has always been my pusakí — my warm, bright safety at the end of the day. That's what I thought since childhood, but life changes.
Adolescence, like childhood, passed, and with it went the comfort of not confronting my feelings. At 18, Minju started working, and so did I. We went our separate ways, fighting so that the exhaustion on weekends wouldn't be greater than our desire to see each other — and it almost never was. Until Chao Yufan arrived.
The Taiwanese exchange student who, as soon as he arrived in Seoul, started working with her. Tall, handsome, kind — and, most importantly, a man. In a short time, Yufan took Minju's focus, going from being her coworker to the person her life was tied to.
Despite my insistence, Minju always denied being with him. Still, I knew that look. I spent years being watched by it. I spent years wondering what it meant. And then, overnight, he was taken from me — like a hole slowly devoured by longing.
Nothing starts big. First, it was the weekends, which gradually diminished. Now, instead of spending Saturdays lying in Minju's warm arms, I had to stay home, alone. Not out of obligation, but because nothing seemed as good as being with her. That happened once a month, then twice, three times, and finally, the entire month. On the rare occasions we did see each other — during lunch breaks, when Yufan's schedule didn't align with hers — she wasn't the same. Her responses became empty, almost irritated. For the first time in 12 years of friendship, Minju began to disappear. I stopped knowing about her day, her week, her life — but she still replied, still talked to me.
And then, just like our Saturday nights together, the replies stopped. My lunch invitations were all rejected — Yufan always needed company — and so were all other opportunities to see each other. Eventually, Minju stopped replying to me. Not completely — but her replies, which used to come within hours at most, now took days, sometimes weeks. But she was still there.
Her Instagram always stayed full, her Kakao statuses too — always photos of her, conversations she was having, all with Yufan.
The months showed me my place, and little by little, all that remained for me were memories of all the times we stared at each other in silence. While I thought about everything Minju caused in me and all the love my being nurtured for her — she was thinking about leaving me. At least, that's what I think.
Yufan became her new world, and me? A discard from the past that no longer needed to exist. People change — we aren't static creatures, and that's what makes us human, after all — but Minju? She didn't just change; she decided that the past and the present couldn't coexist — and the past was me.
But, despite everything, Minju still replies to me, doesn't she? I should be grateful. I should be happy to still have something of hers — even if it's just a "yesss" every two weeks. That means she still thinks of me. That she still wants me. That maybe mamihlaminatapai isn't a tragic ending, but something to be resolved. Dialogue is the key, some say.
And this ambiguous feeling — which made me want to vomit and scream every night — led me to today, to Minju's apartment.
I walked through the dark streets, trembling. The January cold gnawed at my bones, ignoring all the layers of clothing trying to protect me. The snow sank into my feet endlessly, and when I reached Minju's door, nothing improved. I stood there for almost half an hour, my gaze wandering between my phone and the door — and then, at 3:28 AM, I finally gathered the courage to knock.
Minju answered quickly, staring at me in surprise — it had already been three months since I'd last seen her.
"Yunah? What are you doing here?"
Her voice echoed in my ears, and for the first time in months, I felt peace. As if all the despair, fear, and insecurity lodged in my body vanished — but it didn't last long. I was never good with words — Minju always knew that — and, as always, mamihlaminatapai drowned me. I stared at Minju in silence, trying to control the chattering of my jaw and the urge to grab her.
I was pulled inside, and my hands were warmed with a large mug of hot chocolate, full of cinnamon, just the way I always liked it.
And then, all I could do was stay quiet, watching. Minju is in front of me, sitting under soft blankets. The pink mug — my gift for her 15th birthday — no longer keeps the liquid hot enough; now it's just... lukewarm. Minju waits, our eyes fixed on each other uncomfortably.
I fidget nonstop on the sofa, waiting for her to say something — but Minju never speaks. Our silence stretches for minutes — bad, agonizing. I move my hands around the mug, a failed attempt to keep myself warmer while an irrational despair grows inside me.
"You..."
Minju keeps looking at me, her eyes as big as in my memory — bright and warm.
"Have you kissed Yufan?"
"What?"
What?
I widen my eyes, watching Minju's face shift from discomfort to confusion in seconds. I never thought before speaking — it wasn't necessary. Minju isn't my only friend, but she's always been the only one I truly wanted every single day. The only one I could always speak to without thinking — and the one who spoiled me badly. The others became extras. I don't need to think with them, because deep down, I don't care what they think about what I say. But Minju — I care about Minju.
"I'm sorry!" — Minju keeps staring at me, with an expression I'd never seen on her beautiful face before. "Minju, I'm sorry! I..." — a loud sigh escapes my lips as I feel my face begin to wet with tears I didn't even realize I was holding back. Minju stands up, comes toward me, and kneels in front of me, her hands gently touching my knees, making me tremble. "What did I do, Minju?"
I let my crying out, giving up on trying to contain what I feel once more. Minju watches me, her hands trembling on my skin. I was never one to feel, to cry — but Minju has always been my Achilles' heel.
"Why don't you talk to me anymore? Tell me the truth — you're with Yufan, aren't you?"
Loud sobs escape my lips, my nose hurts as I try to focus my blurry vision on Minju. She's clearly confused — she must be irritated too. Running away from someone for months only to end up dealing with that person in a tearful mess at your house isn't what most people want for the early hours of the morning — but God, I needed to see her so badly.
Minju sighs, taking her hands off me. Come back.
"You still think about that? I thought you had gotten over it, Yunah. I already told you — I'm not with Yufan."
"Then why do you hate me now?!"
My voice comes out louder and more aggressive than I intended, surprising even myself.
At some point in life, things become normal: brushing your teeth, putting on pants, greeting the elderly — and for me, running away from what I feel. As long as I can remember, I've been like this — quiet — and for a while, it was fine. Minju understood me, and that was enough. Our silences didn't always speak enough, but nothing seemed wrong, and that was good, wasn't it? Maybe not.
At what point did this lead me here? Where did I lose the ability to say what was on my mind? Children say they want to eat, go to the bathroom, or that they want hugs while their mothers cook — was I like that? Maybe I didn't lose something — maybe I never had it.
Feeling is inevitable, and when you see a quiet person, you think they feel more — that they're always in their mind, feeling. But my mind was never filled with understanding — it was always just Minju. Sometimes thoughts about family, classmates, college, bills — but it was never without Minju present.
When did I become someone she no longer wants around?
"I couldn't keep waiting, Yunah." — her voice comes out weak, her delicate hands on her knees, and her dark eyes staring at her nails decorated with dots and bows. "I don't hate you, but... I don't know how you feel, what you feel about me."
She pulls air into her lungs in an almost tired gesture, making me focus completely on her figure, forgetting the warmth of the mug in my hands.
"Yunah... I like girls. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before." — her gaze rises to meet mine — all I see is her face, her beautiful face. The freckles on her cheeks seem softer than months ago, some dark strands fall over her soft skin. Minju carefully takes the mug from my hands, placing it on the floor to press her palms against mine. "I was afraid of pushing you away — afraid that everything that happened between us was just a moment of teenage fun — and... that at the end of the day, you wouldn't feel the way I do, Yunah. I couldn't lose you."
She watches me in silence for a few seconds before letting out a weak laugh.
"That's what happened, isn't it? Forgive me." — Her head rests gently on my lap. Sobs, now softer, keep escaping my lips without stopping, marking the confusion in my mind. "I fell in love with you — I don't know when. Maybe during childhood, or perhaps in adolescence. Sometimes I think I was born this way — in love with you. I wouldn't change that for anything, Yunah — but I couldn't risk seeing you leave out of disgust for me."
My legs begin to wet with Minju's tears. I carefully stroke her hair, afraid of startling her with my touch.
"And Yufan?"
She laughs, a little louder now.
"I'm a lesbian, Yunah — Yufan will always be just a friend." — she moves her free hand on my thigh, drawing small patterns with her fingertips. "I love you, but beyond that, you were my best friend... I needed someone."
She squeezes my free hand tighter, letting her weak voice become just a memory among the noises of the night.
"You're going to leave, aren't you?"
I observe her fragile face on my lap — the reddish skin and the silent tears escaping from her eyes.
"Me too."
Minju gently lifts her eyes, meeting mine. Confusion escapes through her pupils.
"I'm a lesbian too." — my voice comes out like hers — low and weak, almost like a sigh. "I found out because of you."
Had Minju given me signs? Thinking now — definitely. But being a lesbian was something that had never crossed my mind. Minju isn't wrong to think that everything that happened was just a game, a distraction from routine — that I would leave. After all, I thought the same thing, all these years. I interpreted all those silent glances as that — a confused and uncertain desire that would never be more than that — desire.
I feel the softness of her strands keeping me grounded in reality while my mind slowly wanders through everything. My mind slowly remembering all the times mamihlaminatapai was present. All the times we remained quiet, avoiding what needed to be said.
Mamihlaminatapai is a word in Yagán — "to look at one another, waiting for one to offer to do something that both parties deeply desire, but neither is willing to do." For many years, that was all we did — looked at each other, waiting for an affirmation that would give us the certainty that it was all right, that we felt the same. Kissing Minju was never enough — an action never spoke louder than a word — and maybe that's my fault. No — definitely part of it is my fault.
"I'm sorry I didn't come after you sooner. I should have — waited less."
Some tears still remain on both of us, but somehow, a peace I'd never felt begins to spread softly through my chest.
"I should have done the same — I shouldn't have pushed you away... I missed you."
Her face lifts slowly — a red mark on her cheek shows the curves that the fabric of my pants left on her skin. Minju stretches her body like a cat yawning, extending one of her hands to my jaw.
"I like the shape of your mouth."
I laugh softly, appreciating the warm touch of her skin.
"You've said that before!"
Minju smiles, carefully observing my lips.
"I know."
Like the first time, she leans in, pressing her lips to mine. Now without the inexperience we had in our youth. The sensation is the same — Minju's soft lips fit against mine, as if they were made for me. I allow myself to kiss her without the insecurity of being temporary, feeling my feelings completely.
Mamihlaminatapai isn't all bad, after all. When Victor Vargas says: "the moment of reflection around the pusakí, when the elders pass down their stories to the young — that instant when everyone is quiet" — the interpretation seems right, complete, and unalterable — but nothing is certain.
Pusakí is the fire that burns within me, calling out for Minju's soul. Mamihlaminatapai, for now, can be this — the moment of silence where the pusakí warms me. Where Park Minju warms me.