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Waiting. And Waiting Still.


She wanted to feel a certain sense of loss, something specific that would be traced back to him. She knew that feeling before, all too well. It was years ago but the aftermath of everything, she had carried like a huge yet invisible chip on her shoulder. Day in, day out — She breathed in thoughts of him, only to wish she could spit it out just to ease the pain. And now, now he was back. Again. She stopped keeping count of how many times he’d disappeared in her life, only to resurface months and months later. Each time apologetic, each time sweet and tender. Each time the ending yet another disappointment.

He said he’d be here by five in the morning, when the sun was barely waking up and yawning, its slivers of light not even thrown across the early morning sky. So she sat and waited, her body resting yet tense in the faded vintage armchair. She waited… and waited… and waited…

And waited still.

She did not want to know how long she sat there. All she knew, as she got up to go back to her bed and resume the hours of sleep she lost, was that the armchair was quite warm and sunken. And that was all she needed to know how long she waited for him. And how he never did show up.

* image from Unsplash


About Anna

Awed/delighted/floored with anything horror. Indulges in chocolates, blogging, writing, and reading. Attracted to the offbeat and the quirky / the odd and the strange / the weird and the eerie.


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