Waiting

When I was young, I was afraid. 

I was afraid of being anything other than silent.  I hid behind my mother’s legs, behind chairs, and under tables.  I would make eye contact with someone and quickly turn away to stay hidden.  Everyone spoke over me, and I often let them to not draw too much attention to myself.

I was afraid, and it was as simple as that.

Getting older didn’t change that.  My voice was required more, but it didn’t change that it was quiet.  I stuttered over my words and hid in books and notebooks.  I wrote what I wished I could say down and then threw it away with the fear that someone might find it.  I compiled moments in my head, little things that I could use to find my power when I wanted to be loud.

And even if I hadn’t wanted to be quiet, I was stopped by people who didn’t think my voice had purpose.  Their voices were so loud that they couldn’t imagine needing anything else to fill the space.  Or maybe they liked the sounds of their own voices.

So I waited.  For a long time, I didn’t know what I was waiting for, but I did it.  Absorbed by letters scrawled or typed on pages, I bided my time, quietly watching, observing, listening. 

Sometimes, the quiet was nice.  I could find peace, rest, and stability.  I became familiar with the quiet and greeted it like it was my oldest friend.  Other times, the cacophony that met me outside was overwhelming and often left me in tears.  The cacophony liked to call me awful names, it liked to taunt me and point out all my flaws.

Other people, even some of my closest friends, thrived in that cacophony.  They danced to it as if it was a song and beckoned me to join them.  Temporarily, I could.  I could dance and enjoy it with them, as long as they let me be loud too. 

But I always returned to that quiet.  That was my music.  I danced fluidly to its soft beat, all alone in the safety of my bedroom where I knew no one could hurt me.  Alone in my fortress, I danced and sang and made the most beautiful art because no one else was worthy enough to be in there with me.

For fifteen years, I was alone.  I quietly waited, watched, listened, danced, sang, and created alone for fifteen years.

And then I found him.

Five months younger than me, he was even quieter.  His game was just like mine - he was silent in his observation and held information close to his chest until he decided it was a good time to strike.  Then, he wasn’t even loud in his striking.  No, while everyone grew even louder from his attack, he was still quiet.  He was a kindred spirit, and I was glad to have made him my friend.

Together, we sat side by side and grew older, learning from each other and leading our games to intertwine.

It wasn’t until I was seventeen that I realized just how handsome my friend was.  He was taller than average, but not taller than me.  His shoulders were wide, where his dark hair fell, and his eyes were even darker.  He was exactly my type before I realized I even had a type.

After that, we became intertwined just like our games, and I trusted him enough to let him into my fortress.  He didn’t comment on how messy or small the fortress was.  He just sat on my bed and smiled up at me, as if it was an honor to be allowed in.  With every move, he made my heart beat fast, made me want to join the cacophony with praise for him.

Throughout our time together, I was quite often loud for him, whether it be for defense or to gain him recognition, or even just because he made me.  The noise we shared was safe, unlike the normal cacophony.  I could be myself, and he could be himself.  I knew that I wouldn’t be taunted or judged.  With him, it was comfort, love, compassion, and wisdom I thought I would never receive.  I came to understand that we weren’t just kindred souls, we were twin flames.

The sad thing about having the only quiet space surrounded by an overwhelming dissonance is that it can so quickly be ruined.  After only months, we were torn apart by the chaos that others craved and liked to invade every space with.  I was forced to wait alone once again, this time watching him from across the room.

Sometimes, I could faintly hear the soft music he brought into my fortress, as if he was playing it at full volume, louder than everyone else’s, just so I could hear it.  If I was crying, it put a smile on my face, and if I was smiling, it made me laugh like a maniac.  Being without him tore my heart up, but if I knew he would be alright without me, it would all be worth it.

Another year, I waited.  I watched everyone else find their peace in the quiet as well, and see that the chaos wasn’t all it was made to seem.  I watched people grow and even helped some of them understand that it was okay to do so.  Not all of them did it, but it was enough to inspire me to escape.

I was reunited with my handsome companion mere days after escaping everyone’s chaos.  He had escaped too and waited at the chaos’ border just for me.  When we kissed again, everything else faded out, and I felt like I could breathe after eighteen years of holding it in.  There was no more being afraid, no more letting people talk over me, no more biding my time on my own.  He was right there and took my hand with no hesitation.  He loved me so fully, and I loved him right back.

I waited for him for nineteen years, and then I made him mine.