Novel & Cerita The Waiting Room Novel

sat in the room with me with the particular, patient quality of something that had been waiting and was not going to stop waiting. Was I protecting myself? Or was I punishing him for the crime of another? The silence offered no answer. Neither did the ceiling

Anna The waiting room was an agonizing exercise in expensive minimalism. Brushed steel, white leather, and the kind of silence that feels like a physical weight. On the wall, a digital clock blinked with a rhythmic tick that seemed to sync with the frantic drumming of my heart. I sat on the edge of the chair, my back as rigid as a board. Beside me, Sage was a silent anchor. He hadn't tried to fill the space with useless chatter and I was so glad for his silence. He just sat there, his shoulder brushed against mine, a steady heat in the freezing air of the hospital.

Being totally awoken from my intrusive thoughts, I quickly turn my gaze from the window and towards Maddox who is now standing outside the car with his hand out, waiting patiently for me to take it so he can help me out of the car. I crawl out, taking his hand for support as I jump out of the vehicle on onto the road in front of this large, rock building with a narrow, gray roof over top, and large, lighting windows surrounding the place. From the inside, as we inch closer and closer to it, I can see women all about in the waiting room. Some are very pregnant, others a little less, and some are there crying, being held in someone elses loving arms. We enter the building and everyone immediat

*** The doors to the waiting room opened with a squeak and a squelch, the fast, heavy footfalls as the Userkafs entered, making it clear to Beatrice something was wrong. Patience and Skylar approached The Newshounds who, up until that point, had remained seated in the waiting area, spending most of that time chatting quietly. George had made a few attempts to engage with Primrose but the woman appeared to be content with staring at a vending machine in the corner of the waiting area, her eyes almost trance-like. Beatrice had also noticed this, and it was only when she looked upon Primrose the first time, the woman’s dark eyes met hers, and Beatrice found a small shudder pass through her, for

Family waiting room. The room was sterile and impersonal—uncomfortable plastic chairs, old magazines on the table, a TV showing news at low volume. Daniel sat in a chair near the window and stared outside with unfocused eyes. Two hours. Three hours. Time passed torturously slowly. Every minute felt like eternity. Daniel wasn't used to waiting. Wasn't used to being out of control. Wasn't used to not knowing what was happening with Alina. Finally, after almost three hours, the waiting room door opened.

He held the door and I walked inside. ******************* Dr. Rousseau's waiting room is small and warm and smells faintly of coffee and something herbal. There are two other women waiting, both further along than me, both with the particular inward expression of late pregnancy. I sat in the chair nearest the window and folded my hands in my lap and waited. He called me in after ten minutes.

The kind of place Louis would have ended up if no one had found him. The car had barely stopped before Lorenzo was out, the door still swinging open behind him. Anya scrambled to keep up, her heels clicking against the pavement. Two guards fell into step behind them, their presence drawing eyes immediately. The waiting room was small, cramped, filled with tired people holding paper cups and staring at the fluorescent lights. When Lorenzo walked in, the air changed. Whispers spread like wildfire. A woman's cup slipped from her fingers, coffee splashing across the floor. A man near the back stood up, then sat back down, his mouth hanging open.

There are magazines fanned out on a glass table, Vogue, Harper’s, a medical journal no one will ever touch. The seats are white leather, cold against my palm when I sit down. The quiet here is a kind of performance. Phones silenced. Conversations whispered. The tick of the wall clock is a metronome for private anxiety. I look out the window instead. The world outside keeps going — a city in fast-forward, while here, time has decided to crawl. I hate waiting rooms. They feel like emotional limbo, like confession booths for people who can’t stop overthinking. When the nurse finally calls my name, I flinch a little, then catch myself. “Miss Seethal? Dr. Lowe will see you now.”

She let that sit for a second, then reached over and squeezed his knee once before he pulled out of the space. The waiting room, when they got there, was nothing like the ones he was used to — brighter, louder, a scattering of couples in every stage of the same process, a toddler running determined laps around the chair legs while a woman clearly past her due date watched with the exhausted patience of someone counting down actual days on her fingers. Zachary sat with his hands in his pockets, looking faintly displaced, like a man who'd wandered into the wrong building and was too polite to leave.

We eventually reached the doors of the waiting room and that guards that stood by the door bowed, before opening up the doors for us. In the wide, big waiting room was two light pink sofas, both facing each other. There was a small wine bar at the side and a few shelves. On one of the sofas, sat a man, with three guards standing behind him. Elliot and I walked up to the sofa and I finally got a closer view of the man. He didn't like how I imagined. He was bald, his belly protruding. It looked like it would rip his clothes and floor down to the floor. He wore glasses, horn rimmed and sitting on his large nose perfectly.