Small Town Mermaid
I need to steal something from my ex-boyfriend.
Not out of jealousy or greed—those are human failings, and I am not human.
I am, in fact, a genuine mermaid.
When I first wanted to date a human man, I slogged through the bureaucracy of the Mermaid Immigration Committee, trading my mermaid citizenship for a long-term land residency permit. Now that the relationship has failed and I'm about to lose my qualification to live on land, returning shamelessly to the sea naturally involves navigating strict protocols—I must pass a test before I can re-enroll as a mermaid citizen.
And the test is this: steal from my former lover the one thing he owes me.
This test has existed for thousands of years. The most famous predecessor in mermaid history, the one who made it into Andersen's fairy tales, refused to follow the rules—she couldn't bear to steal her rescued prince's life, and so lost her place both on land and in the sea, ultimately dissolving into sea foam. A tragedy through and through.
I'm not nearly as selfless or devoted as she was, and my ex-boyfriend doesn't owe me a life. I only need to steal one specific thing that would make us even—one item, whatever it is—and I can complete the test, return to the sea before the tide ebbs, and be done with it.
So what should I steal?
I look around the apartment, cluttered with the possessions of our shared life. Easily eight hundred items, maybe a thousand.
Well, yes—today is the first day he's been my ex. I kicked him out, but his things are still here, and taking whatever I want would be effortless.
But after curling up on the small living room sofa with a squishy throw pillow, hugging it to my chest for a long time, my mind remains a tangled mess, formless and directionless.
No wonder. Setting aside my hidden mermaid identity, our relationship was the most ordinary kind of love—no epic trials, no life-and-death bonds. Just petty, everyday give and take. Trying to pluck one definitive thing from that tangle of small moments to settle the account of a whole romance is not so easy.
It's nearing dusk. I drag myself off the sofa and step out onto the little balcony, leaning against the railing.
The balcony faces a small bay, its fine pale-yellow sand dotted with a moderate stream of strolling visitors. Beyond the beach stretches the vast, open sea—seagulls circling, gentle waves rising and falling, catching the sunset in shimmering ripples.
Further still, where sky meets water, the clouds are dyed brilliant purple-red, melting into the horizon in a dreamlike display.
Oh. I suddenly remember.
I first met him on an evening just like this, under a sky ablaze with purple.
---
Back then I was just a mermaid who liked to loiter in shallow waters, occasionally bending the rules by temporarily transforming my tail into legs, human clothes hidden in a reef cavity, sneaking into the little amusement park by the beach for the cranberry shaved ice at its snack stand—something definitely unavailable in the ocean.
Which was how, carrying a freshly purchased bowl of my favorite shaved ice and having taken exactly zero bites, I collided squarely with another park visitor.
My beautiful cranberry shaved ice ended up splattered across both our shirts in a purple stain.
Its senseless death pained me greatly, and I glared at the young man who was apologizing profusely and offering to buy me a replacement.
But my irritation lasted less than a second. The moment our eyes met, something inexplicable shifted in both our gazes.
That was the scene of our first encounter.
In human terms: love at first sight—the most cliché kind.
Standing on the balcony too long, I grew cold in the sea wind and retreated indoors for a wrap. Suddenly I laughed at my own frailty—there was a time I could swim through icy deep waters for a day and a night without tiring.
But that was long past. When I'd let myself be bewitched by love, rushed through all the procedures to come ashore, voluntarily giving up my mermaid citizenship to become human, the mermaid who processed my paperwork had warned me that life on land came with many changes.
If I couldn't adjust, there would be a chance to return to the sea, she told me.
But only one chance. Once used, a second life on land would never be permitted.
At the time, flush with infatuation, I'd brushed off the warning without concern. Just as he had unhesitatingly quit his good job in an inland city, said goodbye to all his family and friends, packed his entire life, and moved to this out-of-the-way little coastal town—just to be near me.
On that score, we'd given equally. Neither could claim the greater sacrifice. Nothing owed, nothing to steal.
After that, I used the false identity the Immigration Committee had arranged and settled down with him in this little apartment facing the sea.
I'd told him I grew up on a remote island and had loved the ocean since childhood, that I grew restless if I couldn't see the sea for too long.
That wasn't a lie. I'd always been honest with him—what few evasions I made were only the ones forced by the iron law forbidding merfolk from revealing their identity to humans.
And it was true that I couldn't stray far from the sea. Even with my tail transformed into legs, the pull of my kind's nature couldn't be entirely erased. The deep ocean called to me always; removed from it completely, my body and soul would wither like a fish out of water.
He didn't know these complications, yet he chose to live by the sea for my sake, enduring the damp salt air and the limited job opportunities. I remember the day we moved in—empty apartment, no furniture yet, and a typhoon hitting, knocking out the power, no way to go out.
So that dark night, we lay side by side on the hard floor. Neither of us spoke. We just listened to the ferocious wind outside, fingers intertwined.
We had nothing.
And yet it felt like we lacked for nothing.
Later, when the wind quieted, I turned to look at him. Merfolk have much better vision than humans, accustomed to navigating the lightless deep—even in the dim glow filtering through the window, I could see his outline clearly.
"This is our home now," he said, and the way he smiled was beautiful.
The next day the typhoon had passed. He pulled me outside for a walk—only a few streets in this small town, quickly traversed. On the way back, we passed a flower shop shattered by the storm, petals and leaves scattered in mud, a pitiful sight.
"What a shame." His heart always had soft places. He picked up a few bruised roses, gathered them into a small bouquet, and looked regretful. "I wanted to buy you flowers on our first day in the new home."
"That's okay, I love these too." The flowers were broken, but my heart was full. I took them from him, heedless of the mud, and inhaled the faint fragrance still clinging to the petals. "Thank you."
Later I plucked the petals and dried them in a glass jar. That jar sits on the living room bookshelf now. I reach up on tiptoe to take it down, open the lid, and try to inhale the scent from memory.
Gone. Time had long since stolen the fragrance away. Even the petals, once tender lavender, had faded to deep purple, dry and brittle—like our own exhausted love.
Should I steal this jar of dried flowers?
Probably not. He gave it to me—it's not something he owes.
I set the jar back with a rueful smile, feeling a tightness in my chest that demands the open sea to ease.
Merfolk naturally crave the ocean's expansiveness; cramped human dwellings never become comfortable, no matter how long you stay. So I grabbed a shawl and headed to the beach, weaving through the sparse crowd, mind still turning over memories of him and me, not watching where I walked.
But I couldn't get lost. In all our time here, we'd walked these paths so many times that my body had memorized every route and landmark—impossible to forget.
Like the ice cream shop at the beach entrance. I'd dragged him there countless times, always ordering cranberry shaved ice, never tiring of it. He didn't have much of a sweet tooth, refusing after two bites, but he loved sitting there with me, passing many a sweltering summer afternoon.
Once, bored out of his mind, he actually went and thanked the shop owner for being our matchmaker. The owner stared at him in confusion, asking if he was angling for a discount, and I collapsed onto the table laughing until I couldn't stop.
I lingered by the shop for a little while, then sighed without realizing it.
In those days, even the smallest thing could make me so happy.
Past the amusement park, the beachfront opens to the bay, where two headlands embrace a pocket of sea like cupped hands. But the water always yearns for the wider world, surging tirelessly toward the deep ocean. Above, blue sky meets blue sea and blends with the fiery sunset to paint great swaths of violet clouds that reflect down into the water.
The wind has picked up, whipping my hair. I pull the shawl tighter and wade toward the water's edge, lost in the dazzle of that distant purple glow.
On so many evenings after dinner, I'd dragged him here to watch the twilight, lingering for as long as the color held.
This was the one thing I could never tire of, even more than cranberry shaved ice.
I once told him this was my favorite view, the one I wanted to share only with him.
He asked why, and I said, only half-joking, that my homeland lay beyond the sea's edge, in the light of the sunset. I couldn't go back, so in my longing it only grew more beautiful.
That was true, too—just not in a way anyone would believe.
It didn't matter. He loved the view himself, wrapping his arms around me from behind, chin on my shoulder, saying that if so, he'd watch this sunset with me every day.
"For how long?" I'd laughed, wriggling free, running toward the water.
He chased me in a few steps and grabbed my hand, afraid I'd dive in and never come back, his eyes earnest and fervent: "Forever."
And then we stood in the glow and kissed each other, sealing that promise of forever.
I've never doubted the sincerity of that moment. When it was made, I believe both our hearts meant every word.
He was even foolish enough to buy me a bottle of edible sea salt online—some vendor had told him it was harvested from the very waters where my so-called homeland lay, so of course he believed it was the taste of my home, and that cooking with it would ease my homesickness.
What a foolish human. How could he have been lying about something like forever?
It's just that merfolk live much longer than ordinary humans, so his "forever" was always going to be briefer than mine.
The sun has fully set now. The beach is emptying, the human voices fading, leaving only the rhythm of waves—rising, falling, muttering to themselves.
It sounds so lonely.
I turn and walk back to the apartment. No lights—the place is dark. Living on land for so long has dulled my senses; I stub my knee on the coffee table. Stumbling onto the floor, I reach down to rub the sore spot and feel a scar.
It's from that time I accompanied him back to his hometown.
His mother had had an accident and was in the hospital. It was the first time I'd seen him so shaken and panicked, rushing back to the apartment to book a flight, then freezing as he looked at me and asked if I would come with him.
His hometown was that inland city far from the sea—absolutely inhospitable to my kind.
But I couldn't refuse him when he needed me most.