sol.ace_r

At some point, I became obsessed with the idea of a “door.”
A door that never quite closes, or a door that disappears quietly, without even the sound of shutting.
Whenever I think of such doors, certain faces come to mind.
They all left for somewhere, yet never fully disappeared.

They have one thing in common.
There was never a final goodbye.
They vanished one day, leaving nothing behind in their place.

But I know this.
That place is still there.
The chair they sat on, the window they opened, the music they listened to—all of it remains as it was.
As if the door never closed, and only time kept moving forward.

Sometimes, I think of them again.
On sleepless nights, in rooms where the piano has fallen silent, at a desk where memory has not yet fully dried, each of them comes back to me.

A friend who played with me when I was young.
Someone who lost their music and collapsed.
A girl who sat for a long time in front of a subway station.
A child who wrote quietly where no one could see.
An older brother who disappeared without a word.
And—a classmate who was endlessly quiet.

On each of their faces, I see a door left open.
That door did not close.
A space that cannot be shut, no matter how hard one tries—a place where something slipped out.

One day, I stared at my reflection for a long time.
I was there in the mirror, but at the same time, so were “they.”
Somewhere inside my eyes were fragments of the quiet emotions they had left behind.

“I wish you would live in my place.”
“I hope you don’t become like me.”
“I wish you would say the words I couldn’t.”

I imagined those voices.
Things that could be heard even without being spoken—like silent last letters.

Depression seeped in like water.
And that water never completely dried.
People say,
“You’re doing better now, right?”
But it felt more like the way your shoes are still wet the day after the rain has stopped.

Somewhere in my heart, it was still damp.
They were gone, but the emotions they left behind were still flowing inside me.

That’s why I don’t say “I’m okay” easily.
Those words felt too sharp, as if they cut away someone else’s despair.

Only now do I understand.
True comfort isn’t,
“Everything will be okay,”
but,
“It’s okay that you feel this way.”

I walk often.
Without meaning, without destination.
As if following someone’s traces, or as if smoothing the fragments inside myself.

On those roads, I sometimes encounter their shadows.
Someone standing briefly at a street corner, someone turning their head at the sound of a passing truck, someone waiting for the light to change at an intersection.

I greet them.
Only in my heart.

“How have you been?”
“Did it hurt a little less today?”
“Is that door… still open?”

I think of a letter written by a child once.
The child wrote this:

“I disappeared,
but the memory of seeing me won’t disappear.
As long as someone remembers me,
I want to believe I’m not completely finished.”

When I first read those words, I cried for a long time.
And for a while, I kept repeating that sentence.
Memory is a form completed by those who remain.

We couldn’t hear their final words, but by remembering the places they left behind, we can make their existence a little warmer.

I am still standing in front of a door that hasn’t closed.
That door sometimes creaks and trembles, and sometimes opens just a little.
When I open it, the past is inside.
Names that haven’t been erased, emotions that haven’t been erased, sentences that haven’t been erased.

That room is sometimes too dark, but there are days when a ray of light enters.
That light comes from the words they left behind, the sky they once looked at, the music they once listened to.

And I decided not to close that door.

Because closing it would mean an ending.
I will keep looking at their stories, remembering them, and speaking quietly.

“You didn’t disappear.
You’re still here.”
“Inside me, inside this space,
you’re still alive.”

Sometimes, I imagine someone slowly opening that door and stepping inside.
And that person asks,

“Does it still hurt?”
“Even so, are you still alive?”

And I will answer like this:

“Yes.
It hasn’t all healed yet.
But still—
I am here.”