They say when one door closes, another opens—but no one mentions the hallway.The corridor where you stand, keyless,between who you were at breakfastand who you'll be by winter.Here, where the fluorescents flickerlike your confidence, where the wallsare painted the color of almost.
This is the hallway between lives:Your desk cleaned out, box in arms,fifteen years compressed to cardboard.Or the courthouse steps, papers signed,last name becoming archaeology.Or the test results folded in your pocket,the word "malignant" rearranging your futurelike furniture in a house you're leaving.
The hallway has its own weather—storms of doubt, fog of maybe,the strange sunshine of terrible freedom.You pace. You lean against wallsthat hold up nothing. You try doorsthat won't budge yet, aren't yours yet,might never be. Some people camp herefor months. Some for years.Some make the hallway home,afraid that any door might leadto another eventual closing.
But here's what the metaphor forgets:Hallways are not just passages—they're places.Things happen here. You meet otherscarrying their own boxes of before.You learn the building's secrets,which vending machine keeps eating quarters,which window shows the best sunrise.You discover that transitionhas its own architecture.
So when they say another door will open,know this: it will. But not today.Maybe not tomorrow. And that's not failure—that's the honest pace of becoming.Meanwhile, you're here, in the between,where the acoustics make everything echo,where you practice different waysof introducing yourself,where you learn the person in transitionis still a whole person.
The hallway between lives is holy ground—not because it's peaceful,but because it's where you choosewho opens the next door:the old you, desperate for any exit,or the new you, who's learnedto read the nameplates first.