I heard myself screaming, falling toward the earth. Suddenly, the roller coaster eased off, and I recognized the Seoul skyline. Fear gave way to joy while the wind streaked tears across my face. I was finally home! How was this possible?

Then I woke up. It was the kind of dream that felt hopeful while in it, but a nightmare upon waking. Soon after, I came back to Korea to reclaim my past life. It had been four years. Stepping into my old haunts, I found they vibrated with a surreal intensity. The air swirled with ghost notes, casting never-ending crescendos. At times, it felt like my entire being was transposed into an invisible, whiplashing symphony.

This time, the roller coaster wasn’t a dream. It was an emotion. It was an awakening in my chest, pulsing in sync with the city. Together, we were alive. But what kind of life? As a Korean-American Gyopo, was I truly born between the cracks of shadows and storms I couldn't name? Was this confusion, this foreignness, the only light through which I could feel?

I returned home thinking it would be a sight for sore eyes. Instead, I found it a sight more than I remembered. A sight more than I was ready to confront. And a sight more of myself in the chaos than I am still ready to admit.