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After watching the Netflix series Can This Love Be Translated?, the initial sentiment is surprisingly simple: it is warm, comfortable, and fulfills its function as a romance. The scenes are soft, the chemistry between the actors is stable, and the story doesn’t push the audience too hard. For viewers expecting a “well-made romance drama,” it offers primary satisfaction. However, even after the credits roll, the work leaves a strange afterimage. It’s not necessarily the lingering glow of heart-fluttering excitement, but rather a haunting recollection of the choices the characters made within their relationship and the attitudes that made those choices possible. What remains is not who loved more or when feelings deepened, but what they chose not to do and which lines they chose not to cross. This is why the drama leaves behind the texture of a relationship more vividly than the climax of emotion.

Thus, while this work sits within the lineage of “romance with trauma,” its mechanism is distinctly different. Past wounds are not consumed as objects to be overcome or mere narrative devices. Instead, trauma becomes a current language and a force that distorts reality. The method of untangling this distortion is presented not as a matter of the magnitude of emotion or sacrifice, but as an issue of attitude towards the other person. The ultimate question Can This Love Be Translated? asks is not about the intensity of love, but rather: What attitude are we choosing within our relationships?

Why It Looks Like a ‘Traumatic Romance’ but Functions Differently

Trauma is a familiar trope in romance. Childhood deprivation, family history, and the pain of parting have often been used to explain character traits and maximize emotional lines. Trauma makes characters appear more three-dimensional and makes the arrival of love more dramatic. In many works, love compensates for trauma, and relationships are designed to fill past voids. In these cases, trauma serves as a narrative device that will eventually be overcome—or at least lose its power in the face of romantic achievement.

However, in this work, Cha Mu-hee’s trauma is not handled that way. Her past isn’t just consumed as an explanation; it repeatedly manifests in her current speech, reactions, and way of relating. The harsh words and cynical attitude she spits out are not personality flaws, but function as a solidified language of trauma. This language exists not to convey her sincerity, but to prevent it from being revealed. Therefore, in this drama, trauma is not in the past tense, but in the present progressive.

At this point, Can This Love Be Translated? avoids common narratives of consolation. While Mu-hee’s trauma is a story to be understood, it is clearly presented as a force that distorts the relationship. The drama recognizes that having trauma isn’t the problem; the problem is when that trauma starts speaking on behalf of the relationship. Instead of easily offering the message “You can be loved even if you are hurt,” it first throws a discomforting question: “When trauma stands at the forefront of a relationship, love cannot function properly.” This refusal to evade the question is why the drama transcends the boundaries of the romance genre.

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Dorami: Not Trauma, but the ‘Self that Speaks Instead’

Mu-hee’s language feels unique because it is consistently misaligned. Even in moments of high emotion, words veer off, and sincerity is not immediately revealed. Instead, aggressive jokes or indifferent attitudes take precedence. While this could be seen as a mere character quirk, the work gradually clarifies the reason: Mu-hee’s words are not meant to reach the other person, but to maintain distance. The more she talks, the safer the relationship feels; the harsher the words, the more her sincerity is protected.

In this context, Dorami appears. While Dorami might look like a device to visualize Mu-hee’s trauma, she actually plays a different role. Dorami is not sadness or pain itself, but an attitude Mu-hee has adopted within relationships: Not speaking directly, pushing away instead, ruining things first. Dorami speaks, attacks, and takes responsibility for the relationship on Mu-hee’s behalf. As a result, Mu-hee doesn’t have to stand at the forefront as a party to the relationship. Even if she fails or gets hurt, the subject isn’t “Me,” but Dorami.

The drama does not set Dorami up as an enemy to be conquered. She is portrayed as a survival method that was once absolutely necessary. Dorami is the safest attitude chosen by someone who cannot handle the weight of a relationship. Thus, the problem is not the size of love, but the attitude of letting something else live the relationship for you.

Joo Ho-jin: Speaking through the Method of Relationship, Not Intensity

Joo Ho-jin does not easily step into the role of the “fixer” expected in romance dramas. He doesn’t solve the other person’s trauma at once, probe into past causes, or try to orchestrate a moment of awakening. Instead, he repeats a much humbler action: refusing to immediately judge the words he hears and enduring the context from which those words emerged. His charm lies not in a skillful kindness, but in the stability of the texture that makes that kindness possible.

This stability begins with “differentiation.” Ho-jin does not react instantly to Mu-hee’s harsh words. He doesn’t strike back with insults or retreat with a wounded face. Instead, he constantly draws a line—a boundary to avoid identifying the person with the words that shake the relationship. This differentiation is more concrete than saying “I understand you” and can sometimes seem colder. However, because of this distinction, Mu-hee experiences a relationship that doesn’t collapse at once even if she makes a mistake. He shows that the power to hold onto someone can come from the habit of not drawing conclusions easily.

The setting of a translator makes this point persuasive. Translation is not about judging the source text immediately, but about holding it in suspension and re-checking it. It looks like a matter of moving a single word, but it actually requires considering the intention, the temperature of the situation, and the parts left unsaid. Ho-jin brings the rhythm of his profession into the relationship: Don’t confirm too fast, don’t conclude too fast, don’t interpret it only as a wound too fast.

Conclusion: Not Completion, but Settlement

The ending of Can This Love Be Translated? appears to follow the grammar of a typical romance but steps back at a crucial point. Conflicts are resolved, and the characters look in the same direction. However, this ending doesn’t declare that all problems are solved. Mu-hee’s anxiety doesn’t vanish, and Dorami doesn’t completely disappear. The work intentionally leaves out a definitive “Everything is fine now.”

Instead, it quietly shows the state they have reached. It’s not a dramatic resolution, but the minimum line of stability for the relationship to continue. For Mu-hee, it’s not a declaration of being “healed,” but the experience that her anxiety doesn’t have to be the final word of the relationship. For Ho-jin, he reaches a state of acknowledging that perfect communication is impossible. Yet, he chooses to stay, accepting the premise that misunderstandings may occur.

This isn’t the completion of love, but an agreement on the conditions to continue it. That is why the ending feels closer to relief than ecstasy, and the term “settlement” fits better than “conclusion.” It leaves us with a lingering question: Before asking what love is, how are we treating the other person?

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