Waiting On The Other Shoe To Drop 소설 & 이야기

and that word lingered longer than anything else, because pending means unfinished, unresolved, waiting. Waiting for the moment it decides again. And next time, it won’t ask.

Alexander I’ve never been good at waiting. Patience is for people who don’t have everything riding on a single conversation. But this? This wait is threatening to kill me. I’m standing at the top of stone steps that probably cost more than most people’s cars, hands shoved so deep in my pockets I might permanently damage the Italian wool, watching Josephine step out of the Uber like she’s walking toward her own execution.

Waiting for an answer. Or a kiss.

It’s only a matter of time. I can hear the ringing in my ears as I try not to focus on what will happen. I start to distance myself from my body. Peeling myself away as a snake sheds its skin. “BOY!” he doesn’t even call me by my name. Refusing or ignoring him never works … my feet shuffle along the ground, my head tipped down as I look at the mismatched wood that makes up our floor. Water marks and chips in the wood, the odd nail raised as I try not to trip over it as I go. When I see his smart, polished black shoes, I stop.

Shoes like that will definitely make anyone who wears them more confident to step down the catwalk. Lea felt really worried this time. But, she didn't want to lose, her pride would not allow her to concede either. Lea looked at her watch and counted the time. Not enough time for her to go out to buy shoes now. She will definitely be late and disqualified. The package delivery man who was pushed back as curious models and assistants approached Nina and Fely, pressed forward. "Ms. Braiven, could you please sign the receipt for this package first?" He handed the paper in his hand to Fely.

And if he’s not coming, that means… I shook off the negative thoughts quickly, telling myself that he could still show up. I mean, even Snow White had to wait for her prince to come. But, what no one forgot to mention was how much waiting sucked. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * JUDAH's POV : I was staring at the stupid tie hanging loosely on the doorknob for the longest time.

I'd sit on the steps beneath it, hugging my knees, waiting from dusk till dark—watching silhouettes come and go at the mouth of the alley, shadows stretching long and then shrinking short. The first two years, I told myself he was healing. Too hurt to show himself. The third year, I started wondering if the body claim was a setup—maybe he'd used a double, gone underground somewhere. The fourth year, I stopped making excuses. I just sat there out of habit. In the fifth year, June, a storm hit New York. The alley pooled with water, the streetlamp's reflection shattering across the surface. I sat on the steps in my jacket, rain dripping from the eaves onto my knees—cold enough that I pulled my

No shoes. Wicked sexy lacy underwear underneath. The kind that says I-tried and please-still-want-me in the same breath. I want this to be perfect. I want him to be perfect. I also want to be emotionally bulletproof, but here I am. Anxious. Terrified. Because this surprise might backfire — leaving me dumped and broken. Then the sound comes — the unmistakable click of a key turning in the lock — and my heart drops straight through the floor, rebounds, and lodges itself somewhere in my throat.

Waiting for the work to finish. Ready for the life to start.