The Waiting Game Book Novels & Stories

Finding it ironic, I softly said, "Gloria's right—it's just a meal, after all." It was just a meal. This wasn't the first time it had happened, anyway. Francesca threw a party the night before she left the country. I was burning with a fever at home, barely conscious. Ian answered with a drunken slur when I called. Upon hearing my request for him to take me to the hospital, he snapped, "I'm just out for dinner! Did you really have to call me repeatedly?" On our fifth wedding anniversary, he delayed telling me his flight details. It wasn't until dinner had gone cold and the restaurant was closing that he finally picked up the video call.

No one in the audience heard what was said, but they saw it—the way his confident smile froze, then twisted into something unreadable. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the staffer and turned away. "Mr. Lopez, the wedding's about to start, but the bride still hasn't arrived. Should we check if something's wrong on her end?" His heartbeat pounded in his ears. That uneasy feeling from yesterday? It hadn't left. It had only gotten worse. He pulled out his phone, dialing the number he knew by heart. The call rang. And rang. And rang. Then—click. Call rejected.

I wanted to test their patience, especially hers, to see if she still possessed the patience I once admired. Engrossed in my tasks, I later indulged in a new game I stumbled upon recently. I decided to extend the wait from an hour to two, determined to reach level twenty in the game. After two hours, Jamil reentered the room, he inquired, "It’s been two hours. Should I send them in?" Pausing for a moment, I instructed, "No, not yet. Call them in the next hour." "Dude they’ve been waiting for two hours." He said, sounding like he’s disturbed

The waiting is the continuation of the building. ---

He set his phone on his knee and looked at me with that quiet, controlled frustration that he had been carrying since this started. "Waiting is more dangerous," he answered after a while of silence. "Every hour we sit in here, they are outside doing something we cannot see. Waiting is not a strategy. It is just delay." "Waiting with a plan is a strategy," I spat back. "What you were doing tonight was not that."

Reena internally screamed. “Want to play a game?” That same smooth voice sounded from the far corner of the room, where the shadows were thickest and its sinful whispers loudest. “A game? What game?” Reena tried to ask calmly, but the alarm bells were going off. Everything was wrong with this situation, this was not how this encounter was supposed to go. “Tsk, how boring.” The voice purred again, only this time it was laced with disappointment. “No matter, the game is already afoot, it would be impossible to stop it now.”

I gasp in pleasure. “You want to know how I feel watching you? How hard I am for you? How you look so hot and desperate for my – Stop.” I still my hands at once, then whimper loudly. Gods, I had been so close just now. His words were a whole other level of aphrodisiac. I won’t move without permission though. This game, though torturous – I want to cum so very badly – I know will have nothing but rewards in the end. Per that book’s heroine, the waiting makes the final release of pleasure hit harder.

Presenting concerns: five years of silence, severe depressive withdrawal, refusal to engage, prolonged grief response. My fingers tightened around the file. For a moment, the hallway seemed to tilt. Then I closed it. I knocked once and entered. The room was quiet. A boy sat by the window, head lowered, staring at his hands. He was so thin that his tunic hung from him like borrowed cloth. His wrists were narrow, his collarbones sharp, and his dark hair had grown long enough to cover half his face. I walked over and sat two steps away from him. “Hello,” I said gently. “I am Dr. Persephone. Are you Eren?”

Even if she had, she never would have been able to afford premier seats. “What time does the game start?” “Three, but we’ll be there around two. I’ll leave your ticket at the box office.” “This is just what I need. Thanks, Elaine and thank also for Dr. Bachrach’s contact info. You are a life saver in more ways than one.” “Just be sure I get credit when that Vashti book wins the Pulitzer.” “I have to read it before we can submit it. At this point I don’t know if it’s fiction or non-fiction.”

Waiting for a message that's never going to come. From a woman who's already gone.