My Name Is Not His

I keep coming back to the doorman calling me by Im’s name before I had even spoken. The mistake felt practiced, not accidental. I hate that I had to look at his face for a clue about what he thought he knew. I hate even more that his smile matched the one I wear at work: pleasant enough to make someone else feel safe, empty enough to hide behind.

The elevator photograph is small, just a smudged button, but it gives the fear an edge I can point to. I want the report submitted because I want a record that does not depend on my voice staying calm. I also want to tear the whole thing up and be done with needing proof. I will not go back there. That is not an overreaction just because I can say it politely.

I recorded my refusal to Maa and said I would attend Chuseok as myself. The sentence sounded sturdier once it existed outside my head. I am still afraid my family will make me pay for it, and some miserable part of me still wants to apologize first so everyone can return to pretending. I did not open the family chat tonight. I could not bear to let another demand sit beside the report while I was trying to decide what I owe anyone.

The evidence envelope is beside my bag for tomorrow. I am trying to sleep without rehearsing every doorway, every face, every version of my name someone might use. My name belongs to me, even when other people act as if they can file it under someone else.