Poems About Waiting Novels & Stories

Just us. *Waiting.*

Lane left because she found out and got heartbroken? Someone even deliberately tagged me again. I stared at it, confused, and typed a question mark: [Was there such a thing? I honestly didn’t know about it.] Then, they started sending me videos.

Perched on the edge of the chair next to the window staring out at the pale afternoon sky my fingers were tangled so tightly that my knuckles ached. It was a clear sky. Blue. typical. Everything out there looked normal. In here nothing felt normal. For me waiting had always been the worst part. Waiting was where fear bred stories. Where doubt sharpened itself into blades. The summon loomed like a weight in my chest unspoken but omnipresent. Every second that passed without resolution felt deliberate as though someone somewhere was deciding how best to use me. Or how best to remove me from the equation altogether. It’s been days. Quiet yet chaotic days of tests. Questions. Evaluations.

I wanted to remember this moment, the moment Dylan finally opened the door to his heart, even if only a tiny crack. I knew I was waiting. But that night I also learned: waiting doesn't mean meaningless silence. Waiting can be the most patient form of love. With that thought, I finally fell asleep, still holding onto the vague promise Dylan had made, "I want to believe." I woke up for a moment, maybe only because of the soft sound of the wind brushing against the leaves outside. Dylan was still there, by the window, his body upright but his eyes empty, staring out. The dim light stretched his shadow across the floor, like someone always standing on a threshold—between wanting to come in and w

Upon seeing how silent I was, Ian said irritably, "Just tell me what you want from me. We're going to my parents' place this afternoon, so stop with that long face of yours." I have been married to him for eight years, but I have never gotten pregnant. His parents never said anything outright, but their disappointment grew with each passing year. They'd make passive-aggressive jabs every time we had a meal together. Ian would just watch silently, only changing the subject when he saw I was at my breaking point. I used to think that he was stepping in to spare my feelings. But now, I realized that he simply counted on me to put up with everything.

It could take weeks for the press to get a glimpse into that mansion, like me, I was certain the press was the last thing on their list of problems. "No. The man could come out of his house next week or next month. I'm not sitting and waiting for that. I'm tired." I said lying through my teeth. This victory didn't feel as sweet as I had imagined it would be, instead, I only felt drained and incomplete.

I don't even wait for him to say anything, but leave with his food as my mind replays his words. Waiting for me. That's what jumps in my head, whilst waiting for the microwave. Those three magical words, it should have been me saying those words not him. I'm usually the one waiting for him, waiting for him to come home, waiting for him to notice me, waiting for him to tell me that he lo - no, I won't go that far. The point is, I'm shocked yet my chest warms at his actions. Him waiting for me like how I'd done so many times, when he returned home late.

Waiting for the city to become brave enough to ask what lay beyond the horizon. Waiting for someone to answer. The expedition suddenly felt real. Not someday. Not eventually. Soon. And somewhere beyond every known world— another light waited in the darkness. Waiting for a ship called the Wayfinder. Waiting for a story to arrive.

But I stayed still, held in that moment of fragile understanding. I couldn’t remember. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But my heart refused to let go. I lifted my chin, gazing at the broken sky, the scattered stars peeking through ash. “I’ll wait,” I whispered, the vow trembling but resolute. “Whoever you are, wherever you are—I’ll wait. Because my heart knows you. And I trust it.” The wind stirred, brushing against me like a phantom touch, and though it brought no answer, I clung to it.

No. I look at the garden. At the driftwood arch. At the water beyond the gap in the hedgerow, I look at the place where she is going to stand in two hours and say the words she has been writing since April and I have been waiting for since the bar and the collision and the amber light and the moment something cracked without my permission and let all the light in. Two hours. I can wait two hours. I have been waiting since the night at the bar. I can wait two hours.