Chapter 8c Jeju
Jeju
The morning I leave, my apartment looks like the aftermath of an impulsive vacation scene from a movie—messy, chaotic, and completely unglamorous.
I shove my favorite clothes, a ridiculously oversized vanity case, and all of Hondongi’s meticulously organized supplies into a single leather duffel.
The last, essential addition is my analogue camera.
I haven’t touched it in ages, but Jeju feels like the perfect place to restart that little hobby.
As the taxi pulls away from the curb, leaving the gilded cage of my Seoul life behind, I dial my aunt’s number.
“Hi, imo,” I say, skipping past the usual greetings. “I’m on my way to Jeju.”
One thing I’ve always loved about my aunt is how she never seems surprised.
Unlike Bora, who would measure my plan on the “Min-hee impulsivity meter,” or Shin, whose quiet calm hides an inner headshake, or Su-ho, who probably would have doubled down on the crazy—I never have to explain myself to her.
“Ooh,” she acknowledges casually. “What about it?”
I laugh lightly. “I was hoping you could help your niece. Maybe give me some clues about her mother’s whereabouts?”
Damn you, Mom, I think. Leaving me for more than a decade, and not even bothering to leave a proper address or a phone number in your letter.
How am I supposed to find you in Jeju without at least a hint?
I know it’s a small island, but not that small that I can wander around blindly and hope to bump into you. This isn’t a K-drama.
“Hmm,” my aunt murmurs. “I’m sorry, I don’t know the exact address. But from the postcards she sent… it was always near a black sand beach. She mentioned her coffee shop has blue shutters and red brick walls.”
I thank her and say a short goodbye. I can almost hear her saying, “Good luck!”
Hondongi, my four-legged anxiety machine, doesn’t share my poetic sense of adventure. He spends the taxi ride pressed into the furthest corner of his carrier, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. I stroke his head gently.
“I’m sorry, Hondongi,” I whisper. “But we have to do this. You’ll understand, I promise.”
By the time we reach the airport, Hondongi is flattened against the bottom of his carrier, ears pinned, eyes wide.
I unclip the straps and scoop him into my arms. “It’s okay, baby.
We’re going to a new place. A calm place.
Maybe you’ll even do some fetch on the beach.
” He trembles for a few seconds, then burrows his nose into the crook of my arm, reluctantly accepting the lie.
The flight is short, but long enough for my thoughts to twist themselves into knots. Hondongi alternates between anxious whining and curling into a tight ball on his carrier.
At last, we land in the soft, humid air of Jeju.
The island is immediately different from Seoul—it feels less urgent, more green.
I can hear the distant, steady ebbs and flows of the waves, even over the mechanical churn of the airport.
It’s a low, constant murmur—the sound of nature refusing to be rushed.
I unbuckle and slide my duffel bag down. I open the door of Hondongi’s carrier, but he refuses to budge. He is a tight little ball of fur, clearly terrified of the sudden lack of familiar city structure.
Ah, I get it, I think. This must be his new under-the-sofa spot. This much nature is a shock to the system for two creatures who have only ever known concrete sidewalks and soundproof walls.
I bend down, rummaging deep into my duffel bag, my hand clutching a foil packet. The plastic wrapper rustles softly as I pull out a tube of the tasty liquid dog treat that Hondongi cannot resist.
I hold the packaging near the carrier door, and I’m completely right. The moment he hears the specific crinkle of the reward, his wet nose pokes tentatively out from the dark plastic mouth of the carrier.
I keep my hand steady, guiding the treat to Hondongi’s snout. His little tongue flicks rapidly, ignoring the strange new surroundings, focused entirely on the reward.
Food, it seems, outweighs all fear.
“I get it, Hondongi, I totally get it,” I whisper, feeling a surge of triumph like the best dog-mom ever.
Then I feel my phone buzz in my pocket—another slight sense of dread, even in the island calm.
I fumble between wrapping Hondongi’s treat, tightening my mask, aligning my duffel bag, and pulling my phone out of my pocket.
Oh shit. It’s Shin.
I hit answer, bracing myself for an awkward call.
“Hello? Min-hee? Where are you?” To my surprise, Shin doesn’t sound interrogative at all.
He cuts to the chase, his voice full of energy, almost vibrating through the line.
“You won’t believe this, but I just locked in the audition for an AAA project!
It’s for a lead in a K-drama about a love triangle featuring Cha Eun-Woo and Song Kang. ”
He adds after a beat, “This could be your big return!”
I take a breath, glancing down at Hondongi, who looks up at me with his puppy eyes, expecting another treat.
“…Uh… Yeah. About that… I’m in Jeju now.”
“In… Jeju?” Shin repeats, the question completely flat. It’s that signature voice of his—the one he uses when he wants to sound perfectly calm while everything around him burns.
“Yep, Jeju.”
“Okay.” He replies after a moment, seeming to process the news. “And how long will you stay there?”
“For a while… I think… I need to find my mom.”
“Your mom… huh…” his voice shifts, measuring how sensitive this topic is for me.
“Yeah. So um… I’m sorry about that audition. I won’t make it.”
“Okay,” he repeats. “Are you… really going to stay there for a while?”
“Yeah… and… I think I really need to take a break from the spotlight. I’m sorry… Could you tell the agency this? You know, a hiatus, like a year or two after a big scandal.”
“Yes, but your name has been cleared up, so you could return earlier. You are not at fault.”
“I know, but I want to do this… for myself…”
“Okay,” he says for the third time, after a long pause. I know he wants to say something else, but he chooses not to. Then he adds, “Well… take care of yourself, Min-hee. I’ll handle the agency. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Shin,” I whisper, then turn the phone off.
The airport corner falls silent around me again, wide and empty. Hondongi sits calmly in his carrier, tail giving a tiny, tentative wag.
Right. Jeju. The real work starts now.
I grab the handle of his carrier and my duffel and head toward the taxi stand, asking for a hotel near a black sand beach that allows dogs.
***
The driver pulls up to a small, unassuming pension-style hotel near a black sand beach—a detail that catches my attention immediately, echoing my aunt’s clue. I decide on the spot to stay here for a couple of days. I need a quiet base of operations before I start my blind search.
The room is small, clean, and smells faintly of sea salt and lemon disinfectant. I set Hondongi’s carrier down, finally releasing him. He doesn’t bolt or bark; instead, he trots straight to the window, sniffing the thick, sea-heavy air that seeps through the poorly sealed frame.
I walk to the balcony, the stone cool under my feet, and look out.
The sun is sinking, and the black sand beach below glistens.
The waves roll in, gentle and relentless.
This place is real. This life is real. It has nothing to do with scripts or ratings or headlines.
I clutch my analogue camera, ready to see the world as it is.
I don’t take a picture yet, though. Instead, I sink onto the bed, letting the silence fill my ears.
Then the screen of my phone lights up again.
This time, it’s Suho.
I stare at the name for a full five seconds.
Suho.
The man who would sneak off in a five-stars hotel room for a few nights, drinking champagne and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist. The casual flame I kept because he reminded me of a simpler, more reckless version of myself.
I hit answer, because I know I had to deal with this ghost too.
“Well, look who answered,” his voice is smooth, confident, and annoyingly familiar. “Just checking on my favorite headline generator. How are you holding up after the storm, Min-hee? Need a distraction?”
He means distraction in the physical sense, and the old me would have accepted the offer. But I am not that person right now.
“I’m fine, Suho. I landed safely.” My answer is clipped, tight with exhaustion and lack of interest.
“Landed? Where are you?”
“Jeju.”
A pause. Unlike Shin’s calculating silence, Suho’s is curiosity mixed with amusement. “Jeju? Alone? That sounds like the start of a drama I would watch. You could have called me to come along.”
“Suho, listen,” I say, pushing myself to sit up straight. I am not in the mood to play this easy, flirty game again. It belongs to the twenty-year-old girl who needed noise to drown out her life.
I take a breath and say the words clearly, watching the last sliver of sun disappear behind the ocean. “I think we should stop this. Whatever this is. Let’s stop pretending that we are twenty. Whatever happened between us then should be buried over, and we should open a new chapter.”
The silence that follows is longer this time, heavier. Then Suho speaks. His voice is suddenly devoid of all its usual playful sarcasm—it’s quiet, serious, and completely flat.
“A new chapter? Or just a new place to hide? I thought you were finally done running, Min-hee.”
I close my eyes, rubbing the space between my brows. The truth is too complicated for this tiny phone line, for this old drama.
“Be well, Suho.”
I disconnect the call without waiting for his response. Two ghosts down.
And there’s one ghost left to find. The biggest one. The one who ran away and opened a coffee shop in Jeju.