Waiting To Exhale Book Novels & Stories

Recommend moving the timeline up. He locked the phone, slid it into his pocket, and closed the bookshelf. A moment later, the office door clicked shut, and the lock threw from the outside. I waited three minutes before I finally breathed out, my forehead leaning against the cool glass of the window. My legs felt hollow. Compliant. Asset. M.

Because protecting people had always been the easiest choice. The hard part would be everything that came after. I closed the ancient book. The pages settling with a soft thud. The decision made. The path chosen. Outside the window, the Void continued growing. Healing. Living. And somewhere beyond it all, Elias was planning his next move. For the first time in a long while— We would be waiting for him.

At school, I had a nickname. They called me "Mister Wait-Your-Turn." I waited for the sneakers my brother had grown tired of, the backpack my sister thought was ugly, and the phones my parents had already cracked the screens of. Even when it came to taking a shower, I had to wait until everyone else was done. A week ago, Mom had promised me, "On the day of your college entrance exam, you won't have to wait your turn for the shower." So when I finally stumbled into the bathroom, drenched in sweat and smelling awful, I thought my turn had finally come. I was halfway through working up a lather when someone started pounding on the door. "Come out. Let your brother go in." My eyes stung,

Bleiz’s POV I held the farewell letter Nancy left behind and read it again and again. I recognize every word, but I can’t understand the meaning. The paper trembles between my fingers, making a soft rustling sound. A sudden, uncontrollable, metallic sweetness surged in my throat, and the world before my eyes abruptly began to twist and spin, colors peeling away, and sounds fading into the distance. The solid floor beneath me felt as if it instantly collapsed and melted, transforming into bottomless, icy, and bone-chilling quicksand.

Didn't react. Completely unfazed.

hers stood out. Undeniably. Irrevocably. Addictively. I inhaled like a man starved. Let the scent burn through me, fill my lungs, and root in my bones. A long, trembling exhale followed without permission. I shifted restlessly in place, my pulse picking up pace, palms tightening against the seams of my trousers. I didn't want to keep her waiting. I didn't want to look like some aloof, detached monarch barely interested in the women who'd been hand-picked to stand before me.

I haven’t got a chance to read that yet, I wanted to wait until after Axel and I spoke and than with everything that happened after we spoke, it’s just sat there. I walk over to the table and take my seat, the title in a faded gold colour getting my attention. This is a book which so many people are fighting to find, they will quite literally, kill for it! I place my hand on the front cover and pull the book open, the intense smell of the past filling my senses. The title page looking back at me, this whole event feeling so surreal. With a deep breath I turn the page, where I assumed chapter one would be looking right back at me, but it wasn’t. There was a little note from the author, which

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

Then a staff member touched her arm. The moment vanished. Lena smiled. Turned away. And continued walking. --- By dusk they retreated. Nobody argued. Nobody wanted to stay. The place crawled under their skin. The false peace. The manufactured contentment. The smiles. God. The smiles. --- The bookshop basement was unusually quiet when they returned. People gathered around the central table. Waiting. Watching. Hoping. Bea hated being the one who had to speak first. She rubbed her hands over her face.

I lie beneath the sheets, the linen cool against my thighs, faintly scented with something clean and citrusy that makes my chest ache in a way that I don’t yet have language for. In the past couple of days, waiting has become something entirely new for me. It's no longer the sharp-edged waiting of fear, the kind that keeps muscles locked and breath shallow. This new waiting hums, it settles into me. It feels intentional, chosen, like stepping into a current and allowing it to carry me without struggling for the shore.