Photos from Seohyeon Cheon
The Door Between Usby Seohyeon CheonTomorrow, a new chapter begins. Not the one that I had planned, anticipated, or dreamed about, but one that's real. One that's mine, now.
I don't know why I came back here. My feet brought me to my old high school building, still asleep in the hush of summer's last breath. One more day before university starts. Walking through the hallway felt like walking through a memory. The air held a dusty stillness, broken only by the echo of my steps. I turned a corner to find it: my hideout. The reading nook beneath the stairwell, tucked away from everyone else. It used to be my island. I sat down, folding my legs into the usual 양반다리 (yang-ban-da-ri) position. Cross-legged and comfortable, I opened the book in my hands, Of Mice and Men. I didn't choose it for nostalgia. I chose it because it reminded me of something I lost. The American Dream. I once believed in it with my whole chest. In ninth grade, I even wrote an essay on it. Back then, I was sure--absolutely sure—that I'd live it. I would study at a top American university, delve into groundbreaking robotics research, advance toward a PhD, and start a tech company that would change the world. I would maybe even give a TED Talk one day and inspire someone like me. “We could live offa the fatta the lan',” Lennie said. My breath paused. I couldn't keep reading. Tears blurred the words. The version of my future I had held so tightly slipped through my fingers again.
My feet carried me downstairs, where the sunlight thinned through a dusty window, paintings slanted on the stairwell walls, barely holding themselves up. It smelled like wet paper, rust, and memory.
The basement was quiet. Forgotten. At the end of the corridor, half-hidden behind chairs and boxes, was the door. Old and thin, it was pale blue, now faded to the color of fog. The paint curled off like dried petals. Chains hung loosely around the handle. I had always been curious. What secrets lie beyond that door? Maybe it was just storage, but somehow, I knew there was something more. The image of a bronze key flashed to the forefront of my mind. I found it yesterday while clearing out my school bag. It was tucked in a side pocket, beneath old candy wrappers and worn-out pens. A delicate bronze key with a bit of rust. No tag. No note. I slid the key into the lock on the door. It turned with a soft click. I pulled at the chains, and they clattered to the ground. I stepped through. It wasn't a memory, but it felt like one.
I stood in a place I had never been yet somehow knew. Warm sunlight spilled through tall, wide windows. Outside, I heard laughter, footsteps, and a bicycle bell ringing in the distance. A vibrant campus buzzed just beyond the glass. The scent of coffee, dry leaves, and new beginnings filled the air. On the wall across from me, there was a poster. "Student Robotics Showcase - Featuring: 가온 (gaon)" My breath stopped. My jaw dropped. My name. I turned and saw her—me. Or another version of me, laughing and confident, presenting a prototype to a small group of students, her—my—voice steady and full of purpose. She was everything I had dreamed of being. I followed her through the day. I watched her solve equations I hadn't yet learned, collaborate with professors I'd never met. She moved and spoke with certainty, living the dream I had clung to for years. But she never saw me. I was just a ghost in her world. A quiet shadow lingering at the edge of someone else's success. It became a rhythm. By day, I went to my actual university—modest yet welcoming and close to home. I sat in intro classes, worked part-time at the lab, and ate dinner alone more often than not. At night, I'd sneak back into my high school and return to the door. To her world. To her. For a while, I thought this was enough. Just watching her, pretending as if I were her. But even in her world, cracks began to show. One night, I found her asleep in her dorm room, arms curled protectively around a robotic prototype—less of a project and more of a lifeline. Her brows furrowed in her sleep. She looked… tired. The next morning, I woke up with new notes scribbled in my notebook. Equations I hadn't yet learned were scrawled in handwriting I didn't recognize. They were hers, and it terrified me.
I stopped going back for a while, telling myself it was a dream. A delusion. I tried to make peace with my reality, but the ache never left. The memory of her lingered behind my eyes. The life I never got to live carried on in my thoughts like a thread I couldn't cut. Eventually, I returned. The door was different this time. It was lighter, flickering like a mirage. Inside, the world was quieter, the colors duller. The laughter, gone. It looked like a photograph left in the sun too long.
She, the Other Me, was in the lab. Alone. When she turned and met my gaze, I froze. "I was wondering when you'd come," she said. Her voice was mine but steadier and softer. "You're not supposed to see me," I whispered.
She hesitated, then shrugged. "I don't know. I thought I was, but maybe happiness isn't about getting everything you want. Maybe it's about making peace with where you are."
"Why is this world falling apart?" "You're changing," she said simply. "You've started to believe in a different future." I stood there, still holding on to the final thread that tied me to my old dream. "This dream, it doesn't vanish," she said, stepping closer. "It transforms. You still have it. Just not like this." "I'm scared," I admitted. "This isn't your failure," she whispered. "You're just not me, and that's okay." I looked at the key in my hand. It pulsed, faintly warm. "Will it hurt?" I asked. "A little," she said. "But only because you care. Letting go isn't the same as forgetting." I nodded slowly, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. My voice was quiet but steady. I let go of the last thread of this dream. "Perhaps this is 전화위복 (jeon-hwa-wi-bog)," I said. "A blessing disguised as a detour." Her smile deepened. "Exactly," she said. "You don't need to chase something just to lose yourself in the process. You're already living. Keep going. Carry it forward, just differently." I stepped back. She raised her hand. A wave, not goodbye, but something gentler. "Farewell for now," I whispered. I turned the key. The door clicked shut and the key dissolved into dust. I haven't seen her since, and she no longer occupies my thoughts.
However, I sometimes catch glimpses. In the way sunlight filters through my dorm window, in a robotics club meeting at my university, when a new project sparks something inside me, and in the quiet moments when I sketch ideas in my notebook. The dream didn't die. It just changed shape. And so did I.
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