Those Who Wait Novels & Stories

Without words—‌ he held her h⁠and. Noah held her‌ other hand. Li‌ke she w‍as th‌e ch‌ild. Sh‍e almos⁠t laugh⁠ed. ‍ ‌They checked in. Then waited. Waiting. Nobod‍y talks enough about wai‌ting. It‌’s not d‍ramatic. It’s not‌ loud. ‌It’s just sitting beside people you love whil‌e i⁠m‌aginin⁠g t‌hings you do⁠n’t wan⁠t.

Elita Once again in life, I am forced to realize that waiting is the hardest thing to do. Waiting for someone is like dragging your body over a bed of nails. It is slow. It is painful. It does not kill, but it leaves me writhing. Time stretches, moving too slow, making every breath feel heavy, every heartbeat feel too slow. The worst part of it? Not knowing if they are even coming back, or if I am waiting for nothing, or if I should do something instead of just…sitting around and waiting.

“All we can do is wait.” I flopped down in the chair next to him. I wanted to know the second he knew something. I looked around the waiting room. Everyone had the same look I saw on Kieran’s face. They were concerned for a loved one and relegated to sitting in the rather uncomfortable chairs while they waited for news. I waited and watched the clock and the people coming and going. Some with very obvious injuries and others who looked perfectly healthy. “I’m going to ask again. This is ridiculous,” I said, standing up and marching for the glass window that divided those waiting—like me—with the medical staff.

The receptionist looks at me for a second. ​"Your name?" ​"Caroline Gómez." She looks for my name in a ledger. ​"There are two people ahead of you. Have a seat; I’ll call you." ​"Thank you." I tug at Will to get him to move. ​"Why do we have to wait if we're only here for an injection?" ​"Darling, we are all the doctor's patients, and we must wait our turn." ​"I don't like waiting." He crosses his arms like a child.

I wait patiently for Keith to show up. We'd made plans to go watch a movie tonight and I must say , I'm looking forward to it. We'd texted back and forth in the afternoon, and he'd suggested that we go out for a movie tonight. Now here I am, still waiting for him. I know that he's a bit late and I have no doubt he might be tied up at work. I just hope he'll be able to make it because if he doesn't, no doubt I'll be a little disappointed but I'll still understand. He is a busy man.

He was the top student at Sterling High School, a very outstanding guy. What hurt him most was that the girl he liked really liked that other boy. Year after year, Luther kept telling himself to let her go, that they would never be together in this lifetime. Still, he could not accept it. He had met her first, after all. Like holding a one-way ticket that would never reach its destination, Luther waited for eight years. The pain of longing even drove him to pray at churches again and again. He only wanted one chance, one opportunity to stand before her openly and proudly.

That night, Matthew sat on the kitchen floor until morning. It was the first time he had ever looked so defeated. In the past, no matter how late he came home, there was always a light waiting for him. There was always someone sitting on the couch, quietly waiting for him. That was all gone. The big house felt empty, and he was the only one left waiting for daylight. The next morning, Matthew did not bother to change his clothes. He went straight to the office.

Turned to page forty-seven. The poem was twelve lines about waiting — not the passive kind, not the resigned kind, but the active patient kind that knew what it was waiting for and held itself ready. The kind that understood the difference between waiting because you had no choice and waiting because you had chosen to and the thing you were waiting for was worth every day of the choosing. I read it twice. Then I set the book down on the window table and looked out at the January street and thought about ten days and active patient waiting and a man who had underlined nothing but had handed me exactly the right page.

After that, she tried to contact us again, only to find that every number had been blocked. Even our daughter, who had always obeyed her and done as she said, sent only one cold reply. "Professor Langley, we've left. Please don't disturb my dad and me again." Marissa smashed her phone. "Marissa, don't panic." Adrian Pierce had overheard some of the conversation, and a flicker of satisfaction passed through his eyes. "Mr. Duncan and Nora must be making all this up just to make you angry. "Where could they go? Tomorrow is orientation. They must have gone to Harrington early and are waiting for you to apologize."

he murmured quietly. He straightened his back and folded his hands on the table. His expression remained neutral, yet something had begun to bother him. Fifteen minutes had passed, and the person he was waiting for had not arrived. A waiter approached politely. “Would you like to order a drink first, sir?” “Just water,” Gevan replied briefly. The waiter nodded and walked away. Gevan checked his watch again. He let out a slow breath. In his life as the CEO of Daxon Group, there were very few people who made him wait. Usually, he was the one being waited for.