The Texture of Waiting

There is a letter I am waiting for.

I asked an important question, and he said he would answer.

Since then, waiting has stayed beside me.

It feels like living with my socks packed full of sand.

Everyday life is still possible. Eating, sleeping, the other important parts of my life—I get through them without much difficulty. But at every moment, with every step I take across the surface of time, the sand is there underfoot. Heavy, coarse sand.

Then night comes, and when I lie down, the bed becomes a stretch of sand. Fragments spill out of the sea of my thoughts and rasp against the sand. Will he answer today? Did my question trouble him? He may not answer. Perhaps he is hoping that, worn out from waiting, I will close the door first. Unable to hold on to any of those thoughts properly, I close my eyes.

Waiting holds me back from deciding anything, and yet drives me toward every decision. Then it hangs regret on every thought. Regret follows even the decision to stop thinking about waiting, and dutifully does its work.

Now, lying in the bed that has almost become a desert, I run my hand over it. With my fingertips, I write out again the question I asked him. Perhaps he has already answered. What I am waiting for now is no longer his answer. It is the end of my waiting. I can end it at any time. But to do that, I would have to admit this: this heavy, coarse thing was not waiting, but the texture of the relationship itself.

I cannot do that yet. I lie in bed, listening to the waves the sea makes as it strikes the desert. I hate the quiet.

Written by Hana
© 2026