이 포스팅은 쿠팡 파트너스 활동의 일환으로, 이에 따른 일정액의 수수료를 제공받습니다.
# Chapter 53: Silence on the Runway
When the automatic doors of Incheon Airport’s Terminal 2 slid open, Seo-ah couldn’t believe she was actually there. She watched her own legs move as if they belonged to someone else. In her left hand was a single piece of luggage—a worn, half-packed suitcase containing only clothes, toiletries, and a phone charger. Not the things she needed, but whatever her hands had grabbed in desperation.
The clock read 9:05 PM. Seventy-five minutes until boarding.
Seo-ah looked at the departure board. Hundreds of flights glowed on the massive screen. London, Tokyo, Bangkok, Shanghai. Everyone was going somewhere. And now so was she. But she had no idea where, not really. Gang Ri-woo had said Jeju. But Jeju was just a place—a destination on a map. The real question was what she’d do there, what exactly his “dangerous method” meant, and what she could possibly tell her mother and brother.
“May I see your ticket?”
An airport employee’s voice pulled her back to reality. The woman was smiling—a practiced, professional smile that barely concealed her exhaustion from processing hundreds of passengers.
“Oh, yes.”
Seo-ah pulled out her phone and found the text from Ri-woo. Flight number, departure time, seat assignment. Everything was there, as if her entire life had been reduced to a booking system. Two messages total. The first was information. The second was a postscript: “I’m sorry. And thank you in advance.”
She couldn’t parse what “thank you in advance” meant. Thank him for what? For causing this mess? Or for letting herself be pushed into it?
As she passed through check-in, her phone buzzed. Do-hyun. His name appeared on her screen alongside his profile picture—a photo from before hagwon, his young face brighter than hers, more alive.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she shoved the phone into her bag and headed toward security. Shoes off. Belt off. Phone and watch into the tray. Everything stripped away, as if she were shedding her very identity.
After security, her phone had recorded four missed calls and seven messages. Three from Do-hyun, two from Mom, two from Hayeol.
Do-hyun: “Unnie what are you doing? Are you home? I’m on my way.”
Do-hyun: “Seriously what are you doing?”
Do-hyun: “UNNIE!!!”
Mom: “Do-hyun says you haven’t come home? What’s going on?”
Mom: “Seo-ah. Pick up. I’m worried.”
Hayeol: “What the hell are you doing?”
Hayeol: “What did that bastard Ri-woo do to you?”
She read them all but replied to none. Her fingers wouldn’t move. They felt like they belonged to a stranger.
Instead, she texted Ri-woo: “What did you tell Do-hyun?”
His reply came instantly: “That you’re on a school trip. I told him you’d call in the morning. Let him sleep. See you tomorrow.”
See you tomorrow. The phrasing felt odd. Ri-woo was supposed to come to Jeju, but he’d never specified when. Just “tomorrow morning”—as if it were a promise.
Seo-ah sat near the boarding gate, surrounded by dozens of travelers. People scrolling through phones. Parents holding children. Solitary figures lost in meditation. Everyone was going somewhere. So was she.
But her journey was different. They’d packed carefully, made plans, decided where to go and what to do. She’d decided nothing. She’d only followed Ri-woo’s instructions.
She picked up her phone again and reread Hayeol’s second message: “What did that bastard Ri-woo do to you?”
The question was precise. What had he done? Loved her? Saved her? Or destroyed her?
She texted back: “I’m sorry. I’ll call you later. Not now.”
Hayeol’s response came five seconds later: “Is something wrong? Really. You’re acting weird.”
“Everything’s fine. Really. I’ll explain tomorrow.”
This time, no reply. Hayeol knew her too well. That silence wasn’t anger—it was concern. But Seo-ah didn’t have the strength to receive it. Not now.
9:35 PM. Boarding announcements began.
“Korean Air Flight 152 to Jeju is now boarding. Business class passengers, please proceed.”
Seo-ah held up her boarding pass. Economy. Rear of the plane. The cheapest seat. Not because Ri-woo was broke, but because this entire situation needed to stay hidden. As invisible as possible.
She crossed the jetway. The aircraft was narrow—overhead bins on both sides, flight attendants smiling despite their obvious fatigue from a long day.
Seat 22F. A window seat. She stowed her suitcase and sat down. The seat next to her was empty. Probably the last boarding.
The runway was visible in the distance. A night runway. Marked by runway lights. Planes waiting below, as if anticipating someone’s arrival.
Seo-ah thought of Ri-woo’s father—Kang Min-jun, chairman of JYA Entertainment. She’d seen him once, when signing the contract. His hands were cold. Dry. Like leather. Completely opposite from Ri-woo’s touch.
She was beginning to understand what it meant for Ri-woo to leave the company. A severance from his father. The abandonment of part of his identity. And the reason he was doing it was her.
“I’m sorry. And thank you in advance.”
The message played in her mind again. What was he apologizing for? The situation he’d created? The burden he’d placed on her? And what did “thank you in advance” mean? Did he expect her to do something?
The runway grew brighter. Planes began moving, preparing for takeoff and landing.
“Please fasten your seatbelts.”
A flight attendant’s voice. Seo-ah clicked hers into place. The metallic sound felt like a signal that she was bound to something now.
The plane began to move. Slowly at first, but with purpose. Toward the runway. Toward departure.
She looked out the window. The night of Incheon. City lights. A massive metropolis. Somewhere down there, Do-hyun was sleeping. So was Mom. And Hayeol. What was Ri-woo doing right now? Meeting with lawyers? Staring at his ceiling?
The plane accelerated down the runway. The point of no return was approaching—physically and emotionally.
“Please note: we are now beginning takeoff.”
Seo-ah closed her eyes. She thought about what she was doing. Why she was on this plane. Why Ri-woo’s hands trembled. Why hers did too.
The plane lifted into the sky.
Incheon Airport grew smaller. The lights dimmed. As if her entire life was being left behind.
Somewhere above the Yellow Sea en route to Jeju, Seo-ah thought about her previous life. The convenience store. The goshiwon. The live club. It all felt like another world now. As if it belonged to someone else.
She turned her phone back on. Flight mode was on, but messages had already arrived.
Do-hyun’s last message: “Unnie I’m sorry. Sorry I couldn’t help you. I heard about you at hagwon. My teacher said you seem to be struggling lately. What can I do to help?”
Reading that, Seo-ah felt the first real urge to cry. But she didn’t. If she started crying, the other passengers would notice. And if she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
Instead, she typed a message to Ri-woo—one she’d send after landing: “I’m in Jeju. Now what?”
The message perfectly captured her current state. No direction. No purpose. Only following orders. Like the Little Match Girl in the cold, Seo-ah was searching for a flame. But whether that flame would warm her or burn her alive, no one could say.
The plane continued into darkness. Toward Jeju. Toward her future.
And somewhere on the ground, Ri-woo was rewriting his own life. Signatures. Seals. The end of everything. Or the beginning.
The plane touched down at Jeju International Airport at 11:45 PM.
Seo-ah deplaned as other passengers were retrieving their luggage. She already had hers in hand—the half-packed suitcase filled with yesterday’s desperate choices.
In the airport lobby, she breathed in Jeju’s air. It was different from Seoul’s. Warmer. It smelled of ocean. And familiar. Like the place she’d left six years ago. Like her mother.
She turned on her phone. Over twenty messages. From Do-hyun, Mom, Hayeol. Everyone looking for her.
And from Ri-woo: “You here? See the convenience store on the left side of the lobby?”
She looked around. There it was. A CU. The same convenience store chain as in Seoul. But this was Jeju.
“I see it. What are we doing?”
“Grab a taxi from there. I’ll text you the address. Go.”
“What’s there?”
“Me. I’ll be waiting.”
Another message arrived immediately. An address. Yongdam-dong, Jeju City. Near the beach. Where she’d walked with her mother as a child. So Ri-woo was waiting there.
Seo-ah entered the convenience store. Fluorescent lights. The same smell as Seoul’s stores. Ramen. Kimbap. Processed food. And an elderly woman standing by the self-checkout counter—the kind of customer she used to see at her convenience store job.
She asked for a taxi number. The ajumma kindly pointed her toward the taxi stand outside, speaking in a Jeju dialect: “Just go out and head to the taxi stand over there, dear.”
“Thank you.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Yongdam-dong.”
“Oh, that’s a lovely area. Ocean view. Are you from Jeju?”
Seo-ah didn’t answer immediately. The question felt strange. Was she from Jeju? She’d been born here but lived in Seoul now. And tonight, she’d been nowhere—suspended between sky and sea.
“Yes, I’m from here.”
It was a lie, but the ajumma smiled. She studied Seo-ah’s face carefully, her eyes sharp behind her glasses—as if seeing straight through to her soul.
“You look like you’ve lost something. Are you okay?”
That question made Seo-ah’s chest tighten. How could a convenience store clerk read her so accurately? She wanted to touch her own face—was her despair that visible?
Was she okay? No. Everything was falling apart. Her music, her life, her choices. And now she was in a place no one knew about.
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”
Another lie.
She left the store, got in a taxi, and gave the address. Yongdam-dong. Near the beach.
The night taxi ride through Jeju was quiet. Fewer lights than Seoul. No constant illumination. Just darkness and the occasional streetlight. The occasional window glowing with someone else’s life. And everywhere, the sound of the ocean.
“First time visiting?”
The taxi driver asked. A man in his fifties, his face sun-darkened, his hands large and calloused.
“No. I used to live here. I left six years ago.”
Six years. She felt the weight of that time. Who had she been then? Eighteen. Senior year of high school. Still dreaming of music. Still young.
“Ah, well, things have changed a lot. Jeju’s developed quite a bit.”
Things change. In six years, everything changes. Cities. People. Everything. And Seo-ah was changing too. Because of Ri-woo. Or because of her own choice. The line between the two had become impossibly blurred.
“Here we are.”
The taxi stopped. A pension appeared—not an apartment, but a small seaside lodging. A two-story white building with what looked like a cafe on the first floor. Even in darkness, she could make out the ocean beyond it. A black expanse with white waves occasionally glinting.
She paid with her card and got out.
The ocean smell. Salt. And something else—something familiar. Her mother’s smell. Her childhood.
Seo-ah’s eyes welled with tears, but she didn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. If she started, it would all be over.
She pulled her suitcase toward the pension entrance and stopped. Her hands shook. It was hard to even grip the door handle. Opening this door would start everything. And end everything.
She took a deep breath. One last breath of who she used to be. The musician. The dreamer. The innocent one. She breathed it all in one final time.
Then she opened the door.
Ri-woo was there.
Inside the pension, 11:55 PM.
Ri-woo sat in the living room. Beyond the window, the ocean. The night ocean. His face was lit only by the light from outside—a blue neon glow. Cold. Lonely.
When he saw her, his eyes flickered. As if he hadn’t truly believed she would come.
“You… came?”
It was all he could manage.
Seo-ah set down her suitcase. It made a small sound against the wooden floor. She looked at him. His face. His hands. The dark circles under his eyes—darker than usual. As if he hadn’t slept in days.
“Yeah. I came.”
He stood slowly, as if afraid that any sudden movement would make her disappear. He was taller than her. She had to look up.
“You really… came.”
His voice carried no conviction. Like he was imagining it.
Ri-woo’s hands trembled. Seo-ah saw them shaking on his knees. And she knew it was because of her.
“Hi.”
She whispered it.
“Hi.”
He whispered back.
And they stood there. In the pension’s living room. Listening to the ocean. At 11:55 PM.
Was this a beginning or an end? Love or destruction? What would remain after this night?
All those questions hung between them. Like sea foam. Like moonlight. Like fate itself.
The fireplace burned with warm orange light, but it couldn’t overcome the ocean’s chill seeping through the windows. One side warm. One side cold. Like these two people, their connection burning and freezing all at once.
Outside, the waves continued their endless rhythm. The Jeju night. 11:55 PM.
At that moment, in that place, their fates had begun to intertwine. Irreversibly. Forever.