“Waiting” sounds benign, innocuous, harmless. Waiting sounds like a word light in meaning.

It isn’t.

Waiting is heavy. Waiting is a real thing, not a filler, but a holding cell between two points. Between not knowing and knowing.

Waiting carries with it its own gear.

Humans are not designed to wait, but for some, its inescapability hones it into a habit. They grow accustomed to waiting. They find their supplies, and then face waiting fully stocked, with distractions for the body in foods and drinks and distractions for the mind in empty entertainment. They tentatively forge the language to connect with their fellow waiters in the pens designed for it, everyone careful to step around the pits of knowledge no one wants to see.

Waiting yells in whispers.