A cup left half-full—
The pages turn, one by one—
A door never moves.
In the corner of a dim café, time folds in on itself. The clock above the counter ticks forward, but for the man in the worn-out seat by the window, it never truly moves. He turns the pages of a magazine he has read before. Not for its words, but for the rhythm of turning, the familiar glide of paper between his fingers. Outside, a bicycle bell chimes, laughter scatters across the pavement. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of stale coffee and something else—something that lingers just beneath the surface, like a question left unspoken.
The Art of Waiting
Some people wait because they must. Others because they cannot move forward. He belongs to the second kind. He watches every entrance, the bell above the door jolting his heart just slightly before he remembers—no one is coming. He drinks his coffee in slow sips, not for the taste, but to extend the ritual. To stretch the moment, to keep it from dissolving into the past.
He stands, but doesn’t leave. The act of standing is enough. Proof of decision without consequence. Proof that he still exists between arrival and departure, between hope and resignation. And so he sits again.
The Weight of Habit
There is comfort in routine, in the quiet repetition of the ordinary. But habits, like ghosts, have a way of haunting. He has made a habit of waiting, of occupying the same chair, at the same hour, with the same half-hearted expectation. The world moves past him, blurs through the windowpane. But he remains. He is the constant against the flow of time.
Leaning back, he listens. The café breathes around him—murmured conversations, the scrape of a spoon against porcelain, the low hum of a jazz record spinning from the speakers. It should feel warm, inviting. Instead, it feels like the inside of a snow globe, shaken but never broken.
The Silence of Absence
Once, perhaps, he waited for something real. A person. A promise. A meeting that never arrived. But now, the waiting has become the thing itself. He no longer waits for someone—only for the feeling of waiting. For the fragile thread of possibility that keeps the world just slightly open, just slightly unfinished.
Outside, the city exhales. Inside, he turns another page.
Lessons from the Waiting Hour
- Waiting is a habit – And habits, if left unchecked, can become prisons. Choose carefully what you make into a ritual.
- Some doors never open – And some do, but not for you. Learn when to stop waiting.
- Absence carries weight – Sometimes heavier than presence. Do not mistake its weight for meaning.
- Motion is not the same as progress – Standing up is not the same as leaving. Moving forward requires more than movement.
- The world does not wait – It turns, indifferent, and so should you.
As evening presses against the café windows, he finally stands, leaving the cup where it is. Tomorrow, he may return. Or he may not. But for tonight, at least, he steps outside. The cold air is sharp, unfamiliar. And for the first time in a long while, he feels something shift within him—a flicker of departure, small but real.
He does not look back.
life 
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