The Door of Unmade Choices: Chapter 20

 

Chapter 20 — Alternate Frank

The core door didn’t open so much as exhale. It was like it blew out a sigh that said, “Finally, we’re getting on with this.”

A soft light spilled out; the dusty glow of a room that had been lived in and abandoned at the same time. The smell hit first: coffee gone cold, paper, paint, something electrical that had been left on too long. Frank hesitated. That was new.

Up to now, the doors had pulled him forward like gravity. This one waited patiently and politely as if it understood consent. Inside was a life that hadn’t been chosen, just not refused. It was a life Frank allowed to unfold.

A workspace stretched out in every direction depicted not one career or version. Rather, it appeared to reveal all of them. A half-written novel slumped open on a desk, its pages curling like they’d lost faith in being finished. A guitar leaned against a chair with one broken string, the wound old enough to be forgiven but not fixed. Sketches were taped to the wall—some brilliant, some terrible, all unfinished. A laptop glowed on a table, cursor blinking mid-sentence like it was waiting for its user to decide to return.

“No trophies,” Frank said quietly. “I never won any trophies.”

I stood back as he stepped farther in. The door sealed behind us with the soft click of a decision being acknowledged. This was Frank’s experience, so I let him have it. My job was to be a bouncer of sorts. Make sure nothing gets out of hand.

“This isn’t success,” he said. His voice wavered, offended and relieved at the same time. “It’s all attempts at things. And giving up. A lot of giving up.

Then someone cleared his throat.

Alternate Frank sat in the corner, older and younger all at once. Same face. Different posture. Less apologetic. He wore paint-splattered jeans and a shirt that looked like it had been slept in for a decade. He expression offered no discernible emotion but it wasn’t blank, either. He knew we were coming.

“Hey,” Alternate Frank said. “You finally came.”

Frank froze. “You don’t look happy.”

Alternate Frank shrugged. “I don’t look safe.”

He stood, gesturing around the room. “This is what happens when you stop asking for permission. You get freedom. You also get fear that doesn’t let you outsource the blame.”

Frank swallowed. “Did it work?”

Alternate Frank laughed. It wasn’t bitter or cynical, just knowing.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes I quit things. Sometimes I ruined things by caring too much. Sometimes I ruined them by not caring enough.”

Then, he leaned in. “But none of this failed me. I failed some of it. That’s different.”

Frank’s eyes filled. “I didn’t choose this life because I was afraid I’d want it too much.”

Alternate Frank nodded. “Yeah. That’s the real risk. Wanting something badly enough that you have to live with the wanting. It’s not really that failure that gets you. It’s the overwhelming desire to be something.”

The room hummed. The door behind us pulsed. Less bright now. More fragile. I checked my watch. It wasn’t moving.

“Frank,” I said gently, “this door doesn’t promise happiness. It promises responsibility. And it charges interest.”

Frank looked from the unfinished pages to the man he could have been.

“I don’t know if I’m brave enough,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to be brave forever,” Alternate Frank said. “Just long enough to start.”

The door creaked behind us, a reminder that it was still there. Alternate Frank stood and approached the real Frank. He studied him, evaluated him. Judged him. Real Frank blinked first and looked away.

“The question now is this,” Alternate Frank said. “Are you brave enough to start right now? Are you ready to start?”

“Don’t answer that, Frank,” I warned. But I knew he already had. 

*****

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