The Waiting Room

Or Whatever You Call the Place You Watch Everyone Else Catch Their Train.

Jul 02, 2026

There is a room
I have been sitting in for years.
No one built it;
no architect drew its walls.
It simply appeared the day I became old enough
to believe that life was about to begin.
It has white lights that never flicker,
and a clock that crawls
with the quiet cruelty of grief.
A receptionist who refuses to look up.
And doors.
God,
so many doors.

Every now and then, one opens.
Someone laughs,
someone gathers their bags,
someone hears their name and disappears
into the promise of a life.
The door closes.
Silence folds softly back over the room.
And I wait.

I thought that phase was the waiting room.
I swallowed sleepless nights like a bitter prescription,
counting days, weeks and months,
the way prisoners scratch lines into concrete.
Told myself, “Just finish.”
Then the next phase arrived,
and I whispered again, “Just finish.”
Because surely—
surely,
life was standing just beyond that gate,
holding flowers,
apologizing for the delay.

Instead, I came home.
And found another chair.
Another number.
Another wait.

I have a list.
Not a wish list. A life list.
Health insurance.
A comfortable car that sighs softly when I turn the key.
A gym membership.
A drink because the evening is beautiful.
Cake.
Not birthday cake,
not congratulations cake.
Just Tuesday cake.
Just, “I survived another ordinary day,
and I thought that was worth celebrating.”

I looked at that list today,
and grief laughed.
Because my dream life is made of ordinary things.
My perfect life is what an average person’s life should be.

Imagine dreaming of normal.
Imagine standing outside the window of adulthood
with your hands in your pockets,
watching everyone else carry groceries, pay bills,
complain about traffic, book dentist appointments,
argue over fuel prices,
and envying them.
Because they have arrived.

And you...
you are still waiting on the platform.
Watching the train doors slide open,
swallowing everyone else,
then vanishing immediately into the dark
before you can step forward.
Standing there,
clutching a ticket with no departure date.
An ultimatum with no options,
a demand with no deadline.
While announcements echo endlessly overhead:
“Delayed.”
“Delayed.”
“Delayed.”

I wake up late now.
Not because sleep is sweet,
but because morning has stopped asking for me.
The alarm clock retired.
The calendar gave up.
Even my shoes look surprised when I wear them.

So I wander
through the tiny glowing cities inside my phone.
LinkedIn is a hallway lined with locked doors.
Instagram is a party where everyone smiles
just before I arrive.
Twitter is a room where everyone is shouting,
and nobody remembers what your voice sounds like.
WhatsApp is a collection of conversations
that all seem to end with, “Talk later.”

Later.
Such a dangerous word.

Substack...
Substack still remembers the girl
who believed words could carry her somewhere.
Sometimes I think it misses her too.

People say, “You are loved.”
And I know. I know.
Love has never been the emptiest room in my life.
Loneliness has.
There is a difference.

Because loneliness is not the absence of people.
It is being everyone’s favourite person
for a moment,
and no one’s first thought
at midnight.
It is laughing loudly in crowded rooms,
then carrying the silence home
like a heavy handbag.

Sometimes I say I want a husband.
But if I am honest,
if I peel every longing down to the bone,
I don’t think I am asking for romance.
I think I am asking for arrival.
I want somewhere to be expected.
Somewhere my name already belongs.
Somewhere that requires me to wake before noon.

I don’t want luxury.
Luxury is loud.
What I want is quiet.

The quiet of paying for a medical check-up
without panic.
The quiet of buying cake
because today existed.
The quiet of calling my friends
without calculating transport.
The quiet of choosing joy
instead of budgeting it.

I don’t want to be rich;
I want to stop postponing my life.
Because somewhere along the way,
I accidentally placed my happiness on layaway.
And every month I walk past it,
smile politely, and promise, “Soon.”
Soon has become my favourite liar.

So here I am.
Still in this waiting room.
Still listening for footsteps.
Still hoping the receptionist will finally look up,
smile, and say,
“There you are. We’ve been expecting you.”
Until then, I will sit here,
clutching this dateless ticket,
watching the doors,
trying not to mistake waiting
for living.