Door

It appeared on Thursday around 1:30 PM. Maybe 2. Maren wasn’t entirely sure. She only noticed because it wasn’t supposed to be there.

It had entirely replaced the south wall of her apartment. What used to be a flat expanse of beige with nothing but a broken clock, a collection of nail holes without any nails or pictures hanging from them, and a few black scuff marks… was a door.

A large, ornate door.

It was dark wood with swirling carvings that lacked any logical pattern, leaving Maren stricken. It didn’t match the original apartment because it looked heavy and thick, elegant and expensive. She stared at it from her place on the couch, jaw open, brows furrowed. Her heartbeat turned heavy against her ribcage.

Maren blinked hard, shook her head, and looked again.

It was still there. 

She pinched the soft flesh of her forearm so hard she flinched. And yet, the door remained. Solid and defiant.

Her phone buzzed, jolting her. It was Jen sending the usual afternoon meme trail. Something about getting over the midweek hump. Something about a cat. Something about bowling with people who are miserable at it because they’d gone last night with friends, and Maren was miserable at it.

Maren’s thumb hovered over the call button, but what would she say? Hey, Jen, there’s a random door in my apartment that’s never been here before. Should I open it?

Only Jen wouldn’t answer. Not now. She was at work, probably sending a few messages while in the bathroom before returning to a busy shift. Jen wouldn’t respond till this evening, so Maren did what anyone would do. 

She stood and went to get a closer look.

The carvings became even more intricate up close. They looked almost alive. The shadows between every swirl danced in the deep grooves without a single speck of dust. Maren noticed there was no knob or handle, no peephole or light coming from the sliver of a gap beneath the door. Only the churning carvings and a faint warmth emanating from the wood.

That’s when she realized her hand was hovering barely half an inch from the surface.

“Don’t touch it,” she murmured to herself.

But of course, Maren did. 

Warmth spread up her arm the moment her fingers pricked the carved wood. She snapped her hand away and held her breath. The door creaked open—not inward or outward, but sideways. It was like it was sliding into a crack in reality, warping and changing gravity ever so slightly. She felt her blood pool a bit to one side of her body.

Beyond the door was nothing and Maren stared into it. There wasn’t darkness, light, or even the hallway beyond her apartment that led to the elevators. It was an endless, shimmering void rippling like water, expanding and boiling like clouds. She could feel her heart pounding in her throat, the hair standing at the back of her neck, but she couldn’t look away.

A voice called from beyond the door—not words exactly, and not her name. It was a deep feeling she recognized. It pulled her closer, itching at her restlessness. Her feet moved before she realized, and before she could grab the wall to stop herself, Maren fell through the door and into the nothing. It was blissful to fall.

She awoke a moment later. Or… maybe it was an hour. Maren couldn’t tell. She sat up from the couch, back in her apartment, her home, her living room.

The broken clock was back on the wall, along with the speckles of nail holes. The door was gone. 

Relief swept over her. Maybe she had dreamed it all. Maybe stress and sleepless nights had finally gotten to her. She laughed, shaky and hollow, and grabbed her phone to text Jen.

Except the phone in her hand wasn’t hers.

It looked like hers with the same model and case, but the lock screen wasn’t right. The familiar wallpaper of a forest at dawn, mist curling between trees, was gone. In its place was a photo of herself… holding the hand of a man she didn’t know.

Maren inhaled a slow, deep breath. She realized the air smelled strange, like citrus, a scent she didn’t own in candles, air fresheners, or perfumes.

Her stomach twisted.

Maren’s whole body leaped when the phone buzzed in her hand. She nearly dropped it. When she swiped it open, a single notification blinked at the top. A text. It said, Are you happy now?

Her hands trembled. It was from an unknown number, not from anyone saved in her contacts. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but before she could reply, she heard it. A warping noise, thick and haunting.

The door. It was back.

She looked up and saw it forming along her apartment wall just as lovely as before. Maren leaped up and ran to it, opening it and jumping inside. She fell again, the world rippling and melting around her, wind twisting through her hair. It was less blissful this time.

When she awoke, she was on the couch again.

Only it was different. Again.

She sat up and looked around. It was the same apartment, only not. Same layout and furniture, but her bookshelf held books she didn’t recognize. Photos on the walls showed a version of her life she hadn’t lived—one where she had short hair and a dog and… 

Sweat pooled in her palms as she stared at a framed picture of herself holding a baby.

She didn’t have a baby.

Maren felt her phone buzz in her hand, and though she was terrified to look, she opened the text message: Are you happy now?

She dropped her phone and let out a small cry. When the door appeared again, Maren fled for it.

Days—weeks?—passed like this. She couldn’t tell anymore. Every door she opened led to another version of her life. Some were better, some worse. In one, she was a celebrated artist, and the apartment was filled with canvases covered in hideous splotches of browns and blues. In another, her body felt entirely elderly, her apartment covered in knick-knacks, knitted blankets, and magazines all collecting dust. In another, everything was black, so depressing and gothic she cried.

In every room, her phone buzzed, and the same message blinked at her: Are you happy now?

Once, Maren screamed and threw the phone across the room. It struck the wall, but even as the pieces scattered, the words appeared in the air before her, glowing faintly: Are you happy now? Is this what you’re looking for?

At first, she clung to the hope that she might find the right version of her life, a perfect one where everything aligned. But each world was incomplete, leaving her restless, unsatisfied, and utterly terrified that she’d never find the right place.

One day, she awoke in an apartment nearly identical to her own. For a few moments, she was convinced it was hers… but then realized it couldn’t be. There was a cat. It stared at her unblinking, sitting on the counter, tail twitching. The familiar disappointment settled into the grooves of her soul.

She didn’t own a cat. She was allergic to them.

Maren’s phone buzzed, and she knew what it would say without opening it. She stared at the cat as it began grooming itself, feeling small and tired. Maybe… maybe this could work. Maybe it was close enough to perfect. The furniture was hers. The books were hers. Even the broken clock on the wall was hers.

She clicked the phone back on and searched through the contacts, looking for Jen. Her shoulders drooped when she couldn’t find Jen’s number. She leaned closer and searched for other friends in her contact list, but couldn’t find any of them. She looked for names of her family—her parents, siblings, and even her aunt—numbers she never really used but wanted desperately now. She wanted to call one of them, but none of them were there.

Her contacts were a list of names she didn’t recognize.

Maren’s fingers moved faster than her brain, and suddenly, she’d swiped over to the unknown number and replied: No. No, I am not happy. I want to go back home.

She regretted it instantly.

But then the bubbles appeared. They were typing.

Then go home, Maren.

She frowned. Her thumbs moved immediately: How?? I don’t know how!

The bubbles came again, and she waited, her breath held.

The phone buzzed: Yes, you do. Deep down.

Maren screamed. She nearly threw the phone across the room like she had so many rooms ago, but then she saw the bubbles reappear. She smacked away a tear before it rolled down her cheek and stared, choking back rage and terror.

The phone finally buzzed: You keep chasing a different life, another you. It’s never going to be enough for you, is it?

Maren’s throat tightened. I just want to find the right one.

She waited for the bubbles and the reply that followed: The right one doesn’t exist.

Her body felt hollow, and her limbs fell a bit limp. Was that true? That couldn’t be true.

The phone buzzed again: Every life has problems, Maren, and every version of you has flaws. Are you going to enjoy the beauty in what you have… or keep looking for the door?

Maren stared at the screen, the weight of the words settling in. She bit her lip hard, but the tears dropped onto her hands anyway.

Deep down, you know better, the unknown number said. The door only opens because you’re looking for it.

Maren nodded slowly. “I should’ve known better,” she whispered. She looked up and saw the door already fully formed on the wall. She took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. She typed: What do I do now?

Not sure, the number replied. Are you happy now?