There is a specific, low-frequency hum that exists only in waiting rooms. It is a composition of radiator ticks, the persistent buzz of fluorescent lights, and the rhythmic, hollow rustle of magazines that stopped being current in 2017. As soon as you step through the door and present your name to a receptionist who seems to be operating in a time zone three hours ahead of the rest of the world, you have crossed a threshold. You are no longer in reality; you are in the liminal space between being and being seen.
Time in a waiting room does not move linearly. It pools in the corners, thick and syrupy, defying the appointments we are ostensibly here for.
You sit on a chair designed by a committee that clearly harbours a deep, architectural hatred for the human spine. You pick up a magazine, let’s say a copy of Country Life from a damp autumn years ago, and find yourself reading an article about the best way to thatch a roof. You do not own a thatched roof. You have no interest in the structural integrity of straw. And yet, for these thirty minutes, you are the world’s leading expert on it.
The waiting room is one of the few places left on earth where you are forced to confront the unadulterated reality of your own existence. There is no reliable Wi-Fi to shield you, no to-do list to distract you, and usually, no phone signal to save you. You are just a human on a vinyl seat, watching a plant in the corner that has been fighting a losing battle against the lack of sunlight for the better part of a decade.
It is the room’s way of saying: We have all the time in the world, and you, specifically, have absolutely none.
In this parallel universe, social norms don’t just fray, they vanish. You’ll find someone breathing with a wheeze that sounds suspiciously like a kettle coming to a boil, or a child staring at you with the kind of intense, unblinking curiosity that makes you wonder if you have spinach in your teeth or if you are simply the most fascinating object in this beige purgatory. Then, defying the laws of physics, there is always one person who possesses the kind of inexplicable luck usually reserved for lottery winners: they are chatting on their mobile with crystal-clear reception, as if plugged into a secret, celestial network the rest of us aren't privileged to access. They describe their weekend plans in vivid, infuriating detail, oblivious to the fact that the rest of us are all staring at our singular bars of service, as if praying to a dead deity.
I often wonder if some people simply stop waiting and start living there.
Perhaps there is a secret door behind the water cooler that leads to a hidden society, where everyone is perpetually between appointments, sipping lukewarm water from a plastic cup and waiting for a name to be called that never quite arrives. Maybe that’s where all the people who never replied to my emails have gone. They didn’t ignore me; they simply got caught in a long-term delay for a consultation about their dry skin and decided the chairs weren't that uncomfortable once they surrendered to the aggressive lumbar support.
Eventually, a door swings open to reveal a clinical landscape that feels jarringly real. The clinician calls a name that sounds vaguely like mine, though by this point, my own identity feels like a theory I once read about in a book. I blink, trying to recalibrate my brain to the concept of "having a purpose," and stand up, feeling the blood protest as it rushes back into my legs. With one last, bewildered look at the magazines and the dying plant, I shuffle forward, leaving the dimension behind to rejoin a world that has, quite rudely, continued to exist without me.
Stepping back outside, the air is sharp and the traffic is moving. I look at my watch and realize only forty-five minutes have passed, though it feels as if I have aged a decade in a vacuum where time is merely a suggestion. I head home, promising myself that next time, I’ll bring a fully charged kindle or a much better magazine.
Not that it will make a difference. The waiting room always wins.