The Waiting Room Novel Novels & Stories

Mia's POV The waiting room is painted the color of old butter. Not quite yellow. Not quite cream. Something in between—a shade chosen by someone who thought it would be calming but instead just makes everything feel slightly nauseated. There are chairs along the walls. Hard plastic things with thin cushions that do nothing to hide how uncomfortable they are. There's a table in the corner with magazines that are six months out of date. There's a television mounted near the ceiling, playing the news on mute, the closed captions scrolling across the bottom in words that no one is reading.

Orion's POV I waited for what felt like forever for the doctors to come out. The emergency room waiting area was sterile and cold, all harsh fluorescent lights and uncomfortable plastic chairs bolted to the floor. The smell of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint scent of coffee from a vending machine in the corner. A television mounted on the wall played the news on mute, the images flickering across the screen while I sat there, unable to focus on anything except the double doors Anya had disappeared through.

The walls were painted gray, fluorescent lights humming above casting a harsh glare. Every step Lena took reverberated against the concrete floors. She could feel the weight of the environment pressing down on her, a constant < of why Au. ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, , x ,,,<<'ùucuuux was here. i > & ,,,,<,,,u<<,,,,,,,U Lena nodded, her uuu tight. “It’s just… so unreal. I keep uguuu it, but… it’s really happening.” They reached the waiting area, a small room with a table and chairs bolted to the floor. Behind the glass, guards watched silently, their expressions unreadable. A buzzer sounded, and a metal door clanged open.

I could barge in, but I needed them to focus entirely on Rose, not be distracted by me. Zeth, Eya, and I stayed in the waiting room. It is white and has a death and antiseptic odor. Death can smell just as fresh as a hospital. It's distinct from the lingering burn from the gunshot wound in my chest. The wait is very long. It's probably been a half-hour, but it seems like forever. I move back and forth over the entire space like a suffocated. I can't do anything, and it screws through my brain. It reminds me of when I saw my parents pass away and desperately tried to get them to move.

The world didn’t stop, it didn’t shake… It just… got quieter. The TV in the waiting room still played some boring news show. A little kid in a blue hoodie ran past me, laughing. Somewhere down the hall, someone was crying—but it wasn’t me. Not yet. I sat down on the nearest chair in the reception area. The kind that feels like it’s made of cardboard wrapped in leather, it was cold and uninviting. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, as I stared at the floor tiles. White, with tiny gray cracks. Funny how something can look clean but still be broken.

Beth I didn’t know how long I sat in that waiting room. Time didn’t feel real. Just a swirl of voices and footsteps, phones ringing, heels clicking. The same cheap coffee smell lingering near the vending machines. The same vinyl chairs creaking under anxious bodies. I couldn’t feel mine. Not really. Rachel sat beside me, one hand in mine, the other tangled in her own hair. Adam stood nearby, arms crossed tight over his chest, watching every person who came and went like one of them might be Madison.

“This is something I need to do alone.” “Okay. I’ll be right here. Text me when you’re done.” I nod. Force myself to open the door. Step out into the cold Boston morning. The waiting room is small. Clean. Generic medical posters on the walls about nutrition and exercise and preventive care. A woman with a toddler sits in the corner. The kid is playing with blocks, completely oblivious to the anxiety radiating from everyone else in the room. I check in at the desk. Fill out paperwork. Try to keep my hands from shaking as I write my name, address, and insurance information.

The afternoon light poured weakly through the blinds of the small waiting room, casting faint lines across the tiled floor. Amanda sat on one of the wooden chairs, her hands resting on her lap, cold and unmoving. The room was too quiet, the kind of silence that carried its own weight. Every sound seemed distant—the faint voices of officers in the corridor, the low hum of the ceiling fan, the occasional rustle of papers. Her thoughts were scattered, unable to settle on one thing for long.

He had never seen Olliver talk to anyone like that before ever. "I did wait. But it was painful to watch you pretending to jot down and work on something that I know would take at least another thirty-four hours." The stranger said, surprising Smith once again. How did this man know what they were working on and how long they had to wait for any reaction? "It's called getting accurate details throughout the experiment. Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that since you barely ever walk out of your office. You might get fat very soon if don't watch out…"

He'd yet to finish, but she pushed the door open with malice, wanting to see him panic. However, he remained calm. His eyes were like an unfathomable abyss—she didn't see the slightest flicker of emotion in them. "You need to knock before entering someone's room," Wilson Quill said coldly. He was just a steward, yet his tone carried the dominance that belonged only to someone accustomed to being in a position of power. Ivory raised an eyebrow and mocked, "You should've locked your door if you wanted to do something so shameful. Besides, this is my home. Why should I knock?"