Mr. Plankton

Hae-jo always thought life was like the tide—coming and going without asking permission. Some people were anchored to the shore, others floated freely, but he was a plankton. Too small to control where he went, too weak to fight the current, drifting wherever the waves pushed him.

On a gray Tuesday morning, he sat on the rooftop of his small apartment building, staring at the distant sea. The doctor’s words still echoed in his head: “Terminal. A year at most, maybe less if you keep ignoring treatment.” The diagnosis felt unreal, like a bad translation in a foreign movie.

He lit a cigarette, not because he liked smoking, but because it gave him something to do with his hands. He had no family to call, no home to return to, no warm voice telling him it would be okay. Just an ex-girlfriend who still haunted his thoughts like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

Jo Jae-mi. Even the name tasted bitter. She had left him two years ago, choosing stability over the mess that was Hae-jo’s life. He never blamed her; he had nothing to offer but a heart too reckless to stay in one place. Still, she was the only person he could imagine seeing before he died.

Down on the street, a bus rumbled past, splashing muddy water onto the pavement. The world kept moving, unaware of the man sitting above it, counting the days he had left. For the first time in years, he made a decision: he would find Jae-mi, no matter how far she had drifted.

That night, he packed a single duffel bag—two shirts, a worn leather notebook, a pack of cigarettes, and the watch she had given him on their first anniversary. The watch didn’t work anymore, but he couldn’t throw it away. Like him, it had stopped keeping time, yet it still existed.

He took the midnight train out of the city. The hum of the tracks reminded him of the nights they had run away together, stealing moments between deadlines and unpaid bills. She used to rest her head on his shoulder, pretending not to be asleep so she could listen to his heartbeat.

The train’s fluorescent lights flickered, casting shadows across the empty seats. Hae-jo wondered if Jae-mi would even recognize him. He had lost weight, his hair had grown longer, and there was a permanent tiredness in his eyes. But the thought of seeing her again kept him awake through the long ride.

By dawn, he arrived in her hometown. The sea was closer here, its smell mixing with the scent of morning bread from the old bakery. He stepped onto the platform, feeling the strange weight of the journey ahead. Every step was both a beginning and an ending.

Jae-mi’s flower shop was smaller than he remembered. A bell above the door chimed when he entered, and for a moment, it was as if time folded in on itself. She was there, arranging lilies in a vase, her hair shorter, her posture straighter.

She didn’t notice him at first. The clink of scissors against glass filled the silence, and he stood there, afraid that saying her name would shatter everything.

“Jae-mi,” he finally said, his voice rough from the train ride and the years in between.

She turned. Her eyes widened—not in joy, but in disbelief. “Hae-jo? What are you doing here?”

He smiled faintly. “Passing through.”

“People like you don’t just pass through,” she said, her tone sharper than he expected. “Why are you really here?”

He could have lied. He could have told her he was on business, or that he was visiting a friend. But instead, he said, “Because you’re the only person I want to see before I go.”

Her brows furrowed. “Go where?”

He didn’t answer, just looked at her as if the silence could explain everything.

She sighed, setting down the flowers. “If you’re going to be cryptic, at least sit down. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”

It took two days before she agreed to come with him. He never told her exactly why—only that he needed to travel, and that he didn’t want to do it alone.

“You’re still the same,” she muttered when they boarded a rickety bus to the next city. “Dragging people into your mess.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But you always came along anyway.”

The first night, they stayed in a cheap motel by the highway. The wallpaper was peeling, and the TV only played static. They ate instant noodles on the bed, talking about everything and nothing.

She told him about her failed engagement, the one she never mentioned before. He told her about the time he worked at a dock just to watch the sunrise over the water.

“You always liked the ocean,” she said softly.

“It’s the only place that doesn’t care who I am,” he replied.

They traveled by bus, train, and once, by hitchhiking with a fisherman who insisted on feeding them grilled squid. The road blurred into a string of small towns and fleeting conversations.

Every night, Hae-jo wrote in his leather notebook. Sometimes Jae-mi peeked, but the handwriting was so messy she could barely make out the words.

She didn’t know those pages were letters—letters he would never send, addressed to her.

They reached a fishing village where the sea was a mirror of molten silver at dusk. Jae-mi stood on the pier, her hair whipped by the wind, and asked, “Why me? Why not anyone else?”

Hae-jo didn’t look at her. “Because you’re the only one who ever stayed… even when you left.”

Her laugh was quiet, almost lost in the waves. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither does the tide,” he said.

One evening, they found themselves stranded when the last bus left without them. They slept on the beach, using their bags as pillows, staring at the constellations.

“If you could start over,” she asked, “what would you do differently?”

He thought for a long time. “I’d love you better.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the night air.

By the time they reached the southern coast, Jae-mi began to notice how often he stopped to catch his breath, how pale his skin had become. When she asked if he was sick, he just smiled and changed the subject.

But one morning, she woke to find him sitting by the shore, his hands trembling, his watch clutched tightly. He told her then, not with drama, but with the simplicity of a man who had accepted his fate.

“I don’t have much time left.”

The world seemed to tilt, the waves receding into a hollow sound. “How long?” she asked.

“A year, maybe less.”

She wanted to scream, to curse him for not telling her sooner, but the only thing she could do was sit beside him, their shoulders touching.

From then on, the trip became different. They lingered longer in each place, not rushing to reach the next. They collected little things—shells, postcards, pressed flowers—as if they could slow time by keeping souvenirs.

In a small mountain town, they stayed in a guesthouse run by an old couple who thought they were newlyweds. They didn’t correct them. That night, in a room smelling of pine and fresh sheets, Jae-mi kissed him for the first time in years.

It wasn’t passion that drove them, but the quiet desperation of knowing they were running out of moments.

The final leg of their journey took them back to the sea, where the waves crashed like heartbeats. Hae-jo’s strength was fading; he spent more time sitting than walking.

On their last morning, he gave her the leather notebook. “Don’t read it now. Wait until you’re ready.”

She held it tightly, afraid that letting go would mean losing him sooner.

They sat together on the shore, watching the sun climb slowly, the light spilling over the horizon. He leaned his head against her shoulder, his breathing soft and steady.

When she finally looked at him, he was gone.

Jae-mi didn’t cry right away. She just held him, listening to the ocean as if it might return him with the next wave.

Later, when she opened the notebook, she found page after page beginning with her name. They weren’t letters of apology or regret, but memories—every laugh, every fight, every small kindness they had shared. At the end, a single sentence stood alone:

“Even plankton can love the tide.”

THE END

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